Attraction to Zenith
by Ashita polar
Summary: Drabble-verse; A challenge to write a different drabble based on every letter in the alphabet; the ABC's of Michael and Liz. I saw this for a Veronica Mars site and liked the concept and decided to apply it to the Roswell-verse.
1. Letter A

**Title:** Attraction to Zen, and Everything in Between  
**Disclaimer: **The characters and concepts of "Roswell" belong to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, and 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended and I make nothing off this story. Just having a bit of fun.

**Pairings:** Michael/Liz; Implied M/L  
**Rating:** Teen  
**Summary:** Drabble-verse; A challenge to write a different drabble based on every letter in the alphabet; the ABC's of Michael and Liz. I saw this for a Veronica Mars site and liked the concept and decided to apply it to the Roswell-verse.

**AN:** Drabbles will be alphabetical order but not necessarily chronological order.

* * *

**A is for appeal.** He didn't get it when he was younger and couldn't see what Max had seen in her over the eight years he'd had to listen to him wax poetic about her hair, her smile, her eyes, her sweet disposition and intellect - although he'd been intrigued by the flashes of fire that surfaced on occasion, belying the quintessential good girl persona. But staring into determined chocolate eyes as she stepped in front of him undaunted, he couldn't help but feel a spark, a flash of admiration that despite the visible tremble wracking her body, she didn't back down.

Flicking a cool glance over her pinched, hesitant features, he swallowed thickly, his stomach jumping when she shifted forward, frantically appealing to his common sense, pointing out how foolish running would be at this time, and he felt that admiration grow in spite of wanting to shove this interloper out of his life. She was a challenge, an enigma and she didn't fit into his carefully scripted, guarded life, and that terrified him, made him act far harsher than he intended, his words dripping scorn as he smirked at her.

She didn't even flinch, even as her kooky friend stepped back, intimidated by his words and manner, but _she_ gazed at him, resolved to stand by them no matter how much he pushed her, no matter what hateful words he flung her direction, and in that cold, darkened alley he finally understood everything Max had been saying over the years.

**A is for Approval.** He had craved it all his life. To know that he fit somewhere, that there was someone that could accept him, flaws and all. Max and Isabel accepted him because he was like them, they had a secret that forced them together, but despite their past ties, he had never truly felt they approved or even fully respected him as a person. They always treated him as a somewhat misguided, aberrant little brother who had to be watched constantly; someone they couldn't trust fully despite the fact that his well-honed instincts had garnered them more information than all their apathetic attempts.

His first taste of full acceptance was surprisingly from her. Max wanted him to be more responsible. Isabel wanted him to take fewer chances. The Evans saw him as not quite good enough to associate with their children. Hank saw him as a freak and nothing more than a paycheck. But she didn't expect anything from him other than what he was. She didn't prod or try to guide his actions, and while she may not always agree with the way he handled things, she stood in his corner. It was baffling, yet freeing.

And every time he faced the flash of disappointment or disregard from his so-called siblings' eyes, he remembered the flash of concern and apprehension in hers when she stood outside his home, one he never let anyone see, and warned him about Topolsky and felt vindicated that he had an ally, someone willing to stand beside him through it all.

**A is for Avoidance.** He had spent all his life not only hiding what he was, but also the less savory aspects of his life with the town drunk – his abuse, both mental and physical, never having enough, never being enough. Isabel and Max thought they knew him so well, but the truth was, they had never even scraped the surface of his mask. They never made it past the strategically cultivated lie that concealed the scars from a life he didn't choose, but was forced to embrace because the alternative would leave him vulnerable.

So it was no surprise that he chose to avoid her and the entire situation, keeping his thoughts and emotions buried behind an impenetrable stonewall. Avoid connections, avoid astute, intelligent eyes that saw far too much, knew too much and threatened the carefully crafted façade without even trying. But she was everywhere, poking her nose in places it didn't belong, discovering secrets she had no business knowing and poking holes into that wall of ice he maintained to keep the world at arms length.

She became the first human he trusted; and although he'd never admit it, her presence in his life terrified him, shook him up and the wall, once stronger than granite, was beginning to erode, to crumble around him.

**A is for Apology.** He never said the words, preferring to convey his sentiments in action since words often failed him and it was too easy to conceal intentions with carefully crafted sentences. What were words really other than yet one more way to lie? But expressions, body language, actions, they spoke more than the actual words ever could. So he didn't bother to say them to her as he handed her back her journal.

Rather, he told her that he considered her a friend, smiled faintly, looked at her warmly and openly for the first time, allowed her to see behind the frigid mask for the briefest moment, because that small acknowledgment was worth a thousand platitudes. He saw her acceptance in the softness of her smile, the tilt of her head as she studied him contemplatively and the shy glow in her eyes as he lightly teased her before walking out the door. He could have destroyed the journal, it probably would have been smarter, but touched by the insight he gained to her heart and soul, he couldn't bring himself to destroy the tomb.

It was an apology, despite the words never being uttered between them and he knew the message was received when Max told him the next day that she had called him a good friend. He admits, it was a test, to see if she would keep his secret, that she would accept his words in the light he intended and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face to learn that he had been right to trust his instincts.

**A is for Acceptance.**


	2. Letter B

**B is for Balance.** That's what they called the ceremony to bring him back from being sick, a realigning of his body, bringing him back into balance. He barely remembers seeing his friends appear one by one, but the moment she stepped onto the wheel, something had changed irrevocably inside him. He remembered turning to face her, standing directly across from him on the spoke of a wheel, her eyes leveled on him nervously, their gazes holding for a tense moment before Max moved, drawing them out of their reverie.

She was the yin to his yang, their personalities opposites in so many ways – she was order while he was chaos, she was logic to his emotion, light to his dark, strategy to his action. All of their ragged edges and loose ends smoothed and merged into a balanced state, a synergy that became greater than their parts for one perfect moment, both of their masks completely gone as her eyes traveled back to his before his head swam and he was awake, lying in the cave feeling incomplete as they fell back into their roles.

Later, Max said he was surprised to see her there as Riverdog told her to step out of the circle because he was worried her fear would do irreparable damage to Michael, but _he_ knew that she was the one who had completed the circuit and would never let him down. Whether she stepped in willingly, or was called to his side by something greater and beyond them both, he knew she was meant to be there. But he simply nodded in acknowledgment and kept his thoughts to himself, because how do you tell your brother that the love of his life balanced you, and if she hadn't been on that plane, you wouldn't be there to have this conversation?

**B is for Betrayal.** The word defined their existence – past and present. In his previous life, he had been a prince, a warrior, a respected man who was second-in-command of his planet and later, a martyr when his betrothed and his cousin, a man that coveted his position by the throne, betrayed the ones they proclaimed to love. They were slaughtered in cold blood, executed in front of the people, including his traitorous wife-to-be when Khivar finally got what he wanted.

It should have ended there, but they were beloved and their people couldn't let go of a Golden Age yet to be seen and recreated them, sent them to the tiny, helpless, blue planet they had been studying for years in a neighboring solar system, although the why of it remained unknown.

They were once again betrayed here by people who were supposed to care for them, first by their protectors who abandoned them without a clue as to who and what they were - Kal when he dumped the dupes and made his own life in lieu of honoring his obligations; Nasedo when he made a deal with the devil that killed them. They were doomed to repeat the cycle before they left the pods.

He was betrayed once more when his so-called family deserted him in the desert to go with people they had no idea they could trust, leaving him with a sense that this was wrong; they had things to do and Isabel and Max abandoned him and their life for a fantasy. Although to hear them tell it, he was the one that balked, he was the one who didn't embrace them and subsequently abandoned them. But he knew the truth.

Betrayal came once more in the form of a blonde girl, one he once called sister, when the man he once admired in two lifetimes made promises to a pretty brunette, then cruelly turned to another because it was his 'destiny.' The same girl who later killed a friend and ally without thought because she had turned on them and embraced the other side, wanting the queen-ship more than she wanted family ties and friendship.

So, could anyone really blame him for having trust issues?

That was why the fact that she had breached his walls in the first place, and that she remained the person he trusted most, was nothing short of a miracle.

**B is for Beauty.** He stared down into her face, his chin propped in one hand as he drew his fingers through molasses strands, her face peaceful and innocent in her repose, cheeks flushed and glowing. Despite the life they'd lived, the harrowing events, the pain, the distrust, the anger, the danger his kind placed her in every day, she still managed to retain a semblance of innocence and softness. Drawing a line over the curve of her cheek, his breath stuttered and heart warmed as her lips curved softly, his name a murmur on her lips as chocolate eyes fluttered open. Beautiful, she was so beautiful.

But more than just a pretty face. The real gem lay in the beauty of her heart and soul, one that had absolute faith and trust in him in spite of it all and eyes that overflowed with love and contentment as their hands laced together, sealed and bound by a passion and emotion greater than anything he'd ever felt in either lifetime.

**B is for Bride.** He had never seen himself as the marrying kind; his life was far too complex, complicated and dangerous to have someone waiting for him at home. It was his excuse to Maria when he stopped their relationship before it had a chance to take off, but his tiny brunette snuck past all his arguments and good intentions until he couldn't see a life without her by his side.

And as he stared down the aisle, his heart nearly stilling at the vision, swathed in ivory lace with gold thread and blue bead accents, he wondered if that had been his problem from the beginning – imagining that his wife would sit quietly at home waiting for him instead of fighting his battles at his side. She was not one to wait silently, and never would; wasn't one to let him face his demons alone, but would step in front of him and defend him at all costs. His own warrior princess, the queen of his heart – she taught him that real love meant accepting that while you can never predict how life will turn out, and that the real danger lies in never opening yourself up to its possibilities.

**B is for Baby.** When Isabel had the baby scare, he had planned to stand by her, no matter how terrified the idea of children made him; it was the right thing to do. But he couldn't describe the relief that flooded through his body when Max came through those doors and told him that there was no way that Isabel and he could create life through the power of dreams alone; he had wanted hit the ground and thank God or the fates, or whomever you wanted to believe in, when he found out.

He and Liz were still new at that point and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her with the news of an unexpected and unwanted (on both his and Isabel's parts) pregnancy. He knew that she'd understand, and that she'd step aside to let them raise the child, but trying to live without her would have broken something fragile inside him when he had just started to trust that his life could be something other than a tragedy. At that time, he hadn't been ready for the responsibility.

Now, staring at the little pink bundle in his wife's arms, joy and trepidation coursing through his veins, he traced his daughter's delicate features and grinned at Liz, counting himself doubly blessed that things played out as they did. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this life, but studying her weary, flushed face, and listening to the snuffling noises coming from the baby in her arms, he knew better than to question it.

**B is for Bounty.**


	3. Letter C

**C is for Crashdown.** He'd spent many days in that booth, pretending to be human, pretending to not care about the whispers about him, pretending that his foster dad wasn't a drunk out for all he could get, pretending the pretty waitress that served him really saw him and not the taint of his less-than-savory home life. Sighing, he turned away from the bright blue-green vinyl benches to survey the rest of the room, silent of laughter, whispers, clattering dishes and the smell of greasy, fatty, fried foods, his heart panged slightly to see the beginnings of change in the air.

He knew it as the place where life as he knew it ended within a split second and the sharp rapport of a gun, nearly killing a nosy, exasperating and stubborn small town waitress who had pushed, prodded and shoved her way into his life. That one event tipped his world on his axis and he'd been reeling ever since, trying to find a hold in his world of choice if not actual birth. Had someone told him years ago, that Max healing that tiny human girl would be the best thing that ever happened to him, he would have scoffed (maybe even zapped them for their stupidity) and had them committed.

But staring into sparkling chocolate eyes as he hit one knee, her fingers flying to her throat in surprise, he can see that momentous event for what it was. It wasn't an ending, but a beginning; and as he slid the tiny diamond on her finger, a watery giggle and acceptance tumbling past her lips, he knew he no longer had to pretend. He had everything he dreamed about in this life.

**C is for Catalyst – a person or thing that precipitates an event or change**. She was always babbling about things like that, often making his head hurt with her long, drawn out theories of cause and effect and the results. If event A had never occurred, then how would that affect B? Would it have happened? Would it have had a different taint or tilt? Would they have met, argued, hated, fought, became allies, became friends, became lovers, became each other's everything if she hadn't been in the way of a bullet that day?

The possible scenarios she dredged up made his head swim sometimes. He on the other hand, didn't think about such things. It did happen and they did meet and they did fight and spar and eventually shared that fateful kiss and fell in love. He'd learned at a very young age, that questioning past events will only drive you crazy, and that it wouldn't change a damn thing. All he cared was that it did happen, and he was grateful to whatever being or event or _catalyst_ that set him on this path.

**C is for Conceal.** It was another word that defined their life and his life in particular; he felt like he was always hiding something from the world, from his family, from the girl he loved, although she had no idea that he loved her.

He had to hide his alien origins because the species that dominated the planet didn't tolerate anyone or anything different or more than themselves. He couldn't even begin to understand why his people sent them to Earth. It made no sense. Why would you send your hope for salvation to a planet that hated you and was intent on shooting you first and asking questions later, if you happened to survive their tests and experiments? Unless you never expected them to come back. But whatever their misguided reasons, the truth was, he was viewed as an abomination by this backwater planet and it forced him to conceal who he really was instead of seeking the answers he desperately needed.

Abuse – it followed him all of his life. It was his dirty little secret that he kept under wraps for many years, thinking that no one would ever believe him and even if on the half chance they would, there was nothing they could do to save him.

As a child, he hadn't known Hank's behavior was wrong or out of place until he'd had the opportunity to watch the Evans with Isabel and Max, but by that time, the damage had been done. It became his normal and like most victims of abuse, he believed that there was something wrong with him and that he deserved the slaps, the punches and the mocking words, so he concealed it in the hopes that his friends wouldn't find him unworthy.

But she always seemed to see right through him, found out every secret he'd hidden away without even trying, soft, compassionate, searching irises that followed him around a room, peeling back the carefully crafted mask one layer at a time, until he was laid bare, ugliness, scars and all visible to all-too-knowing eyes. And yet she hadn't run, hadn't viewed him as broken or unworthy. He fell in love with her for that, but given the feelings of his pseudo brother, he'd had to conceal that as well.

**C is for Cry.**


	4. Letter D

**D is for Desire.** Unspoken lust. One insane, heated moment between them that they had hidden from the rest of the world. An accident really.

He had kissed her. It was a quiet night at the Crashdown, the two of them cleaning up after hours. No one had seen nor heard about it because they agreed to say nothing by unspoken agreement. She had been pushing her way into the back room, as he was coming out to see if she needed any help finishing the front when they collided. Hands clutched at his arms for balance, his wrapped around slim hips, their chests pressed together, soft exclamations and apologies were made, a rueful chuckle bubbled over her lips, he smirked and commented on her grace, she smiled.

It would have been fine if they had left it at that, had moved away from each other without looking up, if their eyes had never met; but they had and her wide, confused, warm brown eyes, glossed pale-pink lips and flushed cheeks had been his downfall.

**D is for Drown.** Drowning in emotion, drowning in sensation, drowning in the sweet taste of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry, of the ultimate forbidden fruit as their lips met hesitantly for the first time and hers parted, inviting him to taste and tantalize, drenched in sweet scent and fevered flesh. His breath snagged, his head swam, his heart pounded and his blood pulsed as her body molded to his, hands tangled in each other's hair, damp breaths mingled and converged as lips met again and their mouths fused, the entirety of his world tipped on its axis as the kiss grew in intensity and rose to a fevered pitch, nearly searing him from the inside out.

Lost in her eyes, in her feel, her taste, adrift, over his head, floating, and drowning in the revelation that nothing could ever be the same again. They crossed a line, forged a bond and the desire that he'd banked for years, knowing his best friend liked this tiny brunette, burned with the force of a wildfire. He was destroyed.

**D is for Devastated.** It's what he'd felt when they pulled away and realized what they had done; something awakened that should never be and a feeling that had to be repressed because duty prevented his pursuit of that fleeting happiness. She wasn't his to worship and never would be. They pulled apart, avoiding each other's eyes, skirting around each other, discomfited by the fire still burning inside; a feeling quickly banked by distress at their actions and the potential ramifications. So he left and they never spoke of it again; they couldn't afford to break the group up for one perfect moment. After all, it was a fluke, a moment of madness, a passing fancy - they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

**D is for Denial.**


	5. Letter E

**E is for Error.** That's what they'd chalked that night up to, a lapse in judgment, something in the air, the heat getting to their brains (yeah…heat, not touching that one), one small breach, a blunder, a minor indiscretion. It was forgotten, shuffled aside, brushed under the rug for the good of their sanity and the benefit of a group of friends that would never understand the madness that bewitched them that night.

But his lips burned in remembrance, and his body ached; a rush of endorphins running through his veins every time he caught sight of cascading molasses hair, a shy smile and teeth nervously set into pink flesh as she nibbled on her lip thoughtfully.

**E is for Elude.** It was what she had been doing for the past week when he finally gave into temptation and sought her out, just needing to reassure himself that he hadn't imagined that night, and that the fire burning in chocolate irises was real. He had to know she felt the same heat and that he wasn't alone, and he intercepted her flight, dragging her into the Eraser room despite all his previous good intentions. Never again had lasted mere weeks.

She stared at him wide-eyed, startled, but the electricity the crackled over his skin at her light touch gave him the answer he so desperately needed and he threw caution to the wind, pinning her against the door and committing his second faux pas.

**E is for Elemental.** It was the only word he could use for the force unleashed when their lips touched for the second time; it was primal, hungry, a jolt, a spark that couldn't be denied by either of them this time, couldn't be blamed on the heat of the day or a whimsy as it grew out of control and threatened to consume them both. She couldn't explain it away this time. And he reveled in every minute of that caress despite knowing that he was going to get burned.

**E is for Enraptured.** She was like a drug, a terminal disease that spread through his veins, imprinting every cell in his body with her brand. She had crawled beneath his skin, burrowed into his heart and set up residence in his brain with the mere touch of her lips on his, the glide of her tongue against his, with her scent and taste imbedding into every pore of his being so that he would never be free of her enchantment. And truthfully, he could happily live bound to her if it meant he could live in that moment forever.

**E is for Envy.** He had said it before, but never had he felt it more than in that moment as he trailed soft kisses over gold-touched skin and he realized that for all he discovered, how real this moment was, he still couldn't do anything about it. No matter how much he coveted the petite girl pressed against him, she was out of reach, inaccessible, unavailable, nothing more than an elusive dream.

Drawing back, he rested his brow against hers, his breath rough and ragged, cursing his susceptibility to her charms, for exposing his secret longing and for letting himself forget all the reasons why they had silently agreed to avoid one another for the past few weeks – they couldn't afford the fallout that would erupt from their momentary insanity.

So, he set her away from him gently, stroking her cheek one last time as he bit back the bitter defeat swirling sickly in his stomach and walked out of the room, heart heavy with disappointment and frustration, desperately ignoring her confusion as he tried to figure out how he was going to forget those stolen moments, all the while knowing it wasn't possible – she was a taint in his blood, a strain he couldn't live without and a lifetime without her touch suddenly looked bleaker than when he had lived with Hank.

**E is for Empty.**


	6. Letter F

**F is for Family.** He stepped back and ignored her, treated her indifferently when they were forced to be in the same sphere, even started up a brief flirtation with another girl in order to forget her out of loyalty, because he didn't want to force her into a decision that would hurt the only family he'd ever known. So it was ironic really, that it was also family that brought an end to their impasse.

**F is for Fallible**. His brother broke her heart, kissed another girl, got in over his head, made an irreparable mistake that sent her running out the door and straight into his arms. He had stood befuddled as she hovered there on his front porch, drenched hair plastered to her cheeks, soaked to the bone, shivering delicately as she chewed that damn lip again. It had been raining all day, which accounted for the damp clothing, but he could see from her red-rimmed eyes that the moisture on her cheeks weren't just raindrops.

Indignant anger coursed through his blood as she relayed her story, his hand clenching and his heart thrumming wildly as he gently lead her to his room, turned on the shower and left her some sweats and a long-sleeved shirt to wear so she wouldn't get sick. He wanted to hold her, touch her, kiss the pain away, but she was grieving the end of her relationship and didn't need him to add to her already heavy heart.

**F is for Fragile.** She looked so tiny in his clothing, the shirt hitting her knees, the sweats barely hanging on her hips despite tying them as tightly as she could. She had never looked more beautiful. But at the same time, she had never looked so hurt, disillusioned and broken as she stood in the doorframe to his room hesitantly. He could gladly kill his kin for putting that expression on her face for the hundredth time.

Walking over to her, he gently took her hand and tugged her over to the couch, where he wrapped her in a blanket and sat her in the corner, handing her the remote as he went and grabbed the cup of tea he'd steeped from the kitchen counter and handed it to her silently before taking his own seat, allowing her to decide what she needed from him.

**F is for Finality.** Her quietly spoken words floored him. It was a phrase he never expected to pass her lips, her tone hollow but resolved as she twisted the untouched tea in her hands, her eyes blankly fixed on the steaming liquid. She looked up at him with a small half-smile when she noted his expression before his eyes danced away from hers, unable to quell the little jump in his heart when she said it. He had wanted this from the moment they'd kissed a couple months ago, but not at this expense.

Breath hitching, he met her eyes, opening his arms wordlessly and allowed her to sink against his chest, his heart thumping noisily as she pressed her cheek to it and stroked her wet, tangled hair awkwardly, making a bumbling attempt to comfort her despite knowing that having her so close was going to be a slow, sweet torture.

**F is for Freedom.** She finally had it and he was happy. He never wanted her mixed up in his secret, involved with the danger and death associated with his family and he hated watching her in his brother's arms. If anything came from destiny's arrival, she was now free to pursue her own goals and dreams again, which was why he had to tread carefully. It was far too easy for them to remember and act on stolen kisses.

**F is for Forgiveness.** She sat curled in his lap, breathing softly, evenly as she absently stroked his arm, and half asleep in the aftermath of turbulent emotions. Shifting so he could stretch out his legs and get comfortable, he slid down and laid his head against the cushion, pillowing her against his chest as he tightened his arms around her. Pursing his lips, he shook his head at his brother's actions and wondered what he was thinking to push her aside.

Of any of them, he knew the importance of his alien past and finding out their roots, but he couldn't believe that his brother could be so cruel as to tell her that he loved only her and then run off to another girl. It was harsh and unforgivable.

Shaking his thoughts off, he tucked her into his arms and closed his eyes, a smile briefly flitting across his lips as she snuggled deeper into his chest, his name the faintest whisper on her lips as she slid into sleep. Who knew that it would take family to bring him his greatest wish, at least for the night?

**F is for Fantasy.**


	7. Letter G

**G is for Gratitude.** It was what she said she felt when she woke up that next morning, slightly disoriented in his arms, hazy dark eyes blinking in confusion as she tipped her head and stared into his before the events of the night before slammed into her and her eyes darkened, her lips curving into a weak smile. But much to his bewilderment, she didn't move out of his arms immediately as he expected, but stayed there, toying with his t-shirt absently as she nibbled thoughtfully on her lip.

He wasn't about to protest the soft, warm weight in his arms, although his leg had long fallen asleep, because waking up with her was a dream come true, even if it wasn't how he'd always imagined. And when she finally stirred, propping herself up and began to get up, he couldn't help the little murmur of discontent that sent her eyes flying back to his in surprise before that tentative smile widened a touch and she leaned over, brushing her lips over his cheek before running into the bathroom.

**G is for Gift.** He touched his cheek in surprise as he got up, his body creaking and aching due to their night on an uncomfortable couch (he made a mental note to rectify that soon) and went into his bedroom, his hair sticking up comically as he dried her clothing with his powers, slightly surprised that they had come to him so easily and without thought. He usually had problems controlling them because of his highly emotional nature, one he kept hidden behind a wall of indifference, but that was her gift to him – she calmed him, made the feelings of inadequacy quiet.

Laying her jeans and shirt on the bed, he closed the door and sat on the couch, waiting for her to finish dressing so that he could walk her home, sneaking her up the balcony and into her room silently so that her parents never knew she was missing. Standing in her room made him feel a little awkward as it was the first time he'd been there – at least conscious. The last time didn't count because he was sick and couldn't appreciate the soft scents and insights to her character as he looked around.

Shifting quietly, he touched her cheek and smiled, saying nothing about the night before as he turned to leave, only to be tugged into a warm hug and more gratitude for knowing just the right thing to do. And maybe that was his gift to her – understanding exactly what she needed without her ever saying a word.

**G is for Grace.** He loved watching her move through the dining room, her step light, her movements fluid and sure as she weaved around customers and tables effortlessly. It was like watching an intricate dance. Even on a day like that day, when her mind was a million miles away, she moved with nimbleness and charmed her customers, flashing a bright smile, even if it didn't reach her eyes, and making each individual feel important in the space of those few minutes her attention was turned on them.

Her ability to see the good in everyone, to find a way to push past the bad in her life and find a silver lining always awed him, made him wonder how she managed to bear all of their secrets on top of her own and still face each day with a smile. Grace under fire, grace under pressure – there is beauty in that.

**G is for Glance.** His heart stilled when her eyes flicked up, leading him to whip his head back to the grill seconds too late to avoid being caught watching her, his cheeks flushing as her lips quirked, the smile reaching her eyes for the first time that day. It elicited the same response from him when she glided up to the order window, watching him quietly as she handed over a new order, a shy smile lighting her face when he crossed the kitchen to take the ticket from her hand.

She could have just left it on the wheel, but he was glad that she hadn't as their hands brushed and awareness jumped between them for a moment and startled eyes met, a connection formed, scenes and feelings zinging back and forth rapidly before their hands dropped and she stepped back with a gasp. Studying her curiously, he watched as she turned, running a hand over the back of her neck nervously as his mouth dropped open in the light of startling revelations and feelings she never intended to make known.

**G is for Gape.**


	8. Letter H

**H is for Heat.** He lay on his bed, dark blond hair plastered to his temples as he stared at the ceiling, a trickle of sweat sliding down his cheek, and a hundred thoughts whirling through his brain, as he tried to make sense of the past two weeks. Hiding his feelings for a certain petite brunette, who had occupied all of his brainpower since the night she ran to him in tears, had been much easier when he wasn't aware that his fragile, soft feelings were returned in spades.

How was he supposed to overlook that simmering heat that burned low in his gut when he knew they were reciprocated? And had they been there before Max had ever entered her life?

Groaning, he dropped his arm over his eyes, swiping at the sweat-kissed skin impatiently as he stood, wondering when he, the king of impulse and action, had become such a girl; it was humiliating to a degree. He should just get off his ass and do something about it; confront her (and maybe steal another kiss just to make sure that this wasn't all in his head), ask her if what he saw was real rather than angsting like a pre-teen.

Recalling the soft burn of lips on his own, he paced restlessly, his gut churning as he wondered why exactly he'd been holding back on seeing her, why he'd let her play the avoidance-dance for this long. It wasn't in him not to go after what he wanted, when he wanted it; so all this hesitating was…pointless. He wanted her, and according to her flashes, she wanted him as well. So, really, there was only one thing to do when all was said and done.

Grabbing his keys off the nightstand, he slammed out the door and turned down the street, headed toward a balcony, above a little diner, that ensconced a certain, small town waitress that was intent on driving him crazy.

**H is for Honesty. **He'd been staring at the fire-escape ladder for the past two minutes, his earlier resolve melting under the weight of too many thoughts and doubts on his way over, the years of systematic abuse and belittling, washing away that first burn of confidence and making him wonder what he'd been thinking. He could never be Max; could never be the perfect son, the white knight, the prince charming that surely she was used to, and deserved after everything she'd been exposed to, everything she lost due to the alien abyss.

He didn't have much in the way to offer her; he was the emancipated foster son of the town drunk, with a crummy apartment that not even roaches wanted to inhabit, two part time jobs that lead to no where and a whole slew of problems, both of the human as well as the alien variety. If he cared about her, and he did, suspected he might even love her, or at the very least be close to it, he'd walk away and let her live as normal a life as she could.

Scuffing his foot against the nearly bubbling concrete, he nodded slowly, making up his mind as he shoved his hands into his pockets before looking up at her balcony one more time, startled to find her watching him with a faint smile.

"Coming up?" she asked huskily, cocking a brow, her eyes gleaming softly at his hesitance. "Or are you planning to stay down there all night? 'Cause I have to tell you, the whole hanging around my balcony thing like a stalker is kinda creepy and far too reminiscent of another alien that shall remain nameless. Please tell me you didn't read the same book on how to romance human girls, because it failed miserably in conveying our true desires."

"What? Are you saying that Max's overtures were less than smooth, Parker?" he quipped lightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips when she rolled her eyes and shook her head disparagingly, her chocolate eyes glinting with a touch of humor. "Besides, I don't need a book. I have more than enough skills on my own."

"Yes, that's why you've been staring at my ladder all broody for the past two minutes, rather than getting your ass up here to actually talk to me," she snickered, leaning her elbows against concrete wall, resting her chin in her cupped hands and smiled indulgently, the hint of a challenge in those fathomless eyes. "I'm convinced, really."

"Maybe, I was just a little unsure of my welcome," he replied seriously, figuring he'd just lay it all the line and be as brutally honest as he could, his features growing closed and stoic, heart pounding in his ears as their gazes clashed and held. "After all, you have been avoiding anyone with green DNA the past few weeks; not that I blame you after everything. And I can't help but think that you're better off that way."

Serious brown eyes regarded him thoughtfully, her bottom lip clenched firmly between her teeth as she seemed to mull those words over carefully, her head cocking contemplatively before she nodded, "You're right, I have been avoiding everyone lately, and not just those of the out of this world persuasion. I needed the time away to get my head straight and make a few decisions. Know what I discovered?"

He cocked a brow at that question, a silent invitation to continue and his heart stilled when she smiled that soft, Liz-smile, the one that lit her eyes brighter than any star he'd observed. "Max is right, we do make our own destiny and while I no longer believe that mine includes him, I hope that it does include you."

He swallowed thickly, his mouth running dry and breath snagging at the simple honesty in her words and he blew out a heavy breath, his mind reeling at how much she'd revealed in that quiet statement, floored that she'd want to give him a place in her life after how much pain they'd brought into it. Shaking his head in wonder, he looked back up into sparkling topazes when she cleared her throat with a smirk.

"That is, if you can get your ass up here and stop creeping me out, because seriously, not the way to a girl's heart."

Chuckling softly, he strode over to fire escape, reveling in her bright grin as she moved away from the wall, and heart fluttering, swiftly climbed to the top, that same heart filled with endless possibilities and dreams.

**H is for Healing. **He watched her from the corner of his eye, sitting with Kyle and laughing at something inconsequential, enjoying a day off that, for once, didn't include alien melodramas, or even normal teen angst and he couldn't help but grin as those silvered notes reverberated through the café. It was a good sound, one missing all too frequently through her on again, off again romance with Max and it was nice to see the hollows and shadows disappearing more and more with each passing day. Happiness looked good on her.

Sighing, he leaned against the counter top and turned his eyes away from the petite brunette, _his girl_, even if she didn't yet know it, and studied the reason they hadn't made it official and become more that friends, frowning when he caught his pseudo brother mooning over her once more. If there was anyone that knew how to dig his heels in and ignore reality, it was Max, and his inability to let go was starting to grate his nerves.

He got it, really he did. After spending the past few months of movie nights, ice cream dates, quiet walks, and nights just laying under the stars and talking, he understood just how difficult it was to lose Liz. But there came a time when you had to stop beating a dead horse and let go already; before he did it for him.

Glancing away from the Moonstruck Marauder, he smiled as chocolate irises met his, a slow, sweet smile spreading across her face and her cheeks tinted a delicate pink as she glanced away shyly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and his heart warmed knowing he was the reason behind that smile. He'd been waiting, _impatiently_ biding his time for a sign that she might be ready for more than just the simple friendship they'd maintained while she exorcized her demons, or one demon in particular.

She hadn't flinched when Max walked into the building, loudly, in an effort to make himself known; she hadn't even looked up when he laughed, didn't even acknowledge him except with a brief nod and smile before turning back to her conversation. He couldn't help the little jump in his heart to see that she seemed to be healing just fine and hoped that one day soon that smile would be followed something infinitely sweeter.

**H is for Heartfelt. **Tonight was the night. No, not _that_ night. Not that he wouldn't be all for it if she were interested (he was a healthy teenage male after all and by no means a saint), but that was still some time away; they still hadn't shared more than a handful of kisses as he hadn't wanted to rush into a relationship despite the crazy attraction between them. In all honesty, she had been slowly driving him crazy over the summer with her little shirts, and even tinier shorts if it were at all possible. He was shocked his brain hadn't imploded on more than one occasion, the minx.

No, tonight he was done with the ambiguous friends, pseudo-boyfriend-girlfriend stage and he was claiming her for his own. Yes, she'd probably accuse him of being a Neanderthal if she could read his thoughts, but he couldn't help it; he was tired of watching guys trip over themselves to get her attention and not having any options for…well lets be honest…no right to beat the crap out of them if they touched her. He wasn't going to lose her now.

That's not to say that she'd paid them any mind; in fact, she never seemed to see anyone other than him when they were together, her attention always firmly fixated on him and he knew her well enough to know it wasn't an act. It was a quality that he loved about her; and did wonders for his sense of self-worth, making him feel warm inside, proud that this beautiful, vibrant and intelligent girl not only spent time with him, but also genuinely liked and admired him.

He could never find the words to adequately describe how it made him feel.

He probably never would. Words were never his forte; he was more the show them exactly how you feel, as words always seemed to fail him at best and get him in trouble at the worst of times. But she never made him feel inadequate when he failed to get his point across, usually chuckling softly and shaking her head in amusement when he put his foot in his mouth, and then kissed his cheek gently, telling him not to worry. She understood.

Is it any wonder why he was crazy about this girl?

Turning towards her, his breath caught when she came into his arms easily, her eyes flashing with an inner knowledge as she wrapped her arms around him and leaned into his body, resting her chin against his chest gently and stared up at him tenderly, as if she too could feel the shifting of their relationship. Brushing a strand of her hair behind one ear, he smiled, basking in the dreamy glow of hers and closed his eyes, gently pressing his brow to hers, content to just get lost in her and in the scent of warm vanilla and spice that always played havoc on his insides.

No more dancing around, Guerin.

Cupping the delicate lines of her jaw in his hands, he lowered his head, brushing his lips against her experimentally, gasping softly as the subtle caress sent off sparks inside his head, igniting the ever-present fire that burned low in his gut. Pulling back slightly, he searched her eyes for any resistance and sighed happily when he found none before capturing her lips for a sweet, slow kiss, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she leaned up into his mouth and initiated the deepening their embrace, sending his head spinning and senses reeling. Home. He was finally home.

**H is for Haven.**


	9. Letter I

**I is for Immersion.** From the moment she entered his world, he'd felt that he had been shoved into the deep end of the pool. Emotion had always been something easily boxed away, placed into a deep, dark compartment and labeled hands off, easily ignored and his infamous stonewall impenetrable – until she entered his life.

And then there was chaos.

The flux and flow of emotions – first resentment and irritation, followed by grudging respect and admiration, and then a slew of truly uncomfortable feelings including longing, desire, enchantment and dare he say it…love – all sought to overwhelm, crush, bury him within its wealth and leave him gasping for breath, struggling for air, only to find there was no escape. Her mere presence seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the atmosphere, leaving his head swimming and heart beating madly.

It was frightening, intense, confounding, discomfiting and a whole lot of other words he had never felt before, and never really wanted to either, and yet they all revolved around an equally intense, diminutive school girl that couldn't leave well enough alone. It was more trouble than it was worth at times, and more times than not, he was torn between wanting to tie her to a chair to keep her from nosing around in places she shouldn't and kissing her until they were both breathless. It was aggravating, agitating, confusing, annoying, and…all too damned endearing for his comfort.

And yet he couldn't resist diving back in for more.

**I is for Illumination. **He'd like to say that love came to him gently, as a soft progression that flowed naturally from one point to the other and in easily definable moments. But let's face it – he was never one to be in touch with his emotions and all the touchy-feely crap that girls (and Max) liked to wax on about poetically was a vast mystery. The amount of insight he possessed into the softer emotions could fill a thimble – if he were lucky. And if he could somehow justify fleeting lust into that category. Calling him stunted in the emotional category would have been an enormous understatement.

No, love, when it finally came was like a swift kick to the head. And hurt just as much.

It's not to say that he didn't feel these things; it's just that he didn't really identify with them given his upbringing. Being the unwanted meal ticket to a man that would rather drink than feed, clothe and soothe a helpless child, doesn't exactly lead to a loving environment. So one had to forgive him when he failed to recognize what was staring him in the face. In fact, it _did_ take an actual head-on collision for him to finally grasp it.

The flash of emotion that blazed through him when their lips first touched, sent him reeling, standing over a chasm for one brief moment before freefalling into the unknown left him breathless and aching for more. It burned; raged through him with a sudden clarity that ripped him in two, then shredded every preconceived notion he ever held about his feelings for the catalyst, the girl that initiated this monumental reaction.

It stunned him, how much a split second could change the very fabric of your world and how a simple action could bring so much unfettered joy, yet lead to utter devastation in the matter of the next. The kiss had lasted all of ten seconds at the very most, yet it was devastating to the core – it was more than he ever dreamed of having, but everything that he was to be denied because of their positions in their tight knit group.

It was amazing and beautiful; it was staggering, and illuminating, and tragic. It was…

**I is for Inevitable.** Despite his deep connection to his alien past, he wasn't one to believe in the destiny line that Tess and Nasedo spewed. He didn't believe in meant-to-be, he didn't wish on stars, he didn't hold onto the idea that there is one person meant for another; soulmates and fated love were nothing more than sand castles and fairytales, fed to children so they could feel better about the very cold, bitter world around them.

Too entrenched in reality, he didn't buy the lines people sold him about happily ever after no matter how prettily they smiled. He couldn't afford to blind his eyes to the harsh truth surrounding him on a daily basis; react too slowly and he would end up bruised, bloodied, pain screaming through his body as he choked back the tears burning in his throat. He couldn't afford dreams – they only ended in grief.

But even he should have seen that they would eventually run smack into each other. Opposites attract and all that nonsense. Although he had wanted to leave her in the dust, keep his fragile heart locked away, their lives had become too irrevocably entwined and he really should have seen this coming. If for no other reason than it would prove that the gods, fates, or whatever, truly were laughing at him.

Why would this have ended any differently for him?

But then again, hadn't she always been…

**I is for Irresistible. **The first thing he had noticed about her was her smile – soft, sweet, shy with just a touch of uncertainty – that started with a small quirk and then broadened as she grew more confident; white teeth flashing against pale golden skin, lighting up her whole face until it reached the second thing he noticed about her – dark chocolate, sparkling eyes. They glowed and shined in a way his never had, knowledge with just a hint of innocence still clinging in the corners, confidence mingling a hint of nerves and yet a courage that belied the heart that had to be pounding in her chest.

Those eyes had captured him in an instant as she turned to him on the playground and glanced at him coyly from a fringe of sable brown locks, peering up at him from that tangled, glossy curtain as she smiled and apologized for running into him in the hall. Her regard had startled him, stunned him completely given that he was used to being overlooked and forgotten, that people only saw the shell and not the scared kid underneath desperately seeking a place to belong and someone who loved him unconditionally. That nugget of friendly warmth was irresistible and touched him in ways his mind couldn't yet fathom.

The moment was over in the matter of seconds, but lived with him for years until his hormones learned to appreciate other things about her. The smile, eyes and hair captivated him still, but then he, being a typical teenage boy, couldn't help but notice her other charms. Oh, they were nothing to write home about, nothing like Max had made her out to be for certain. She wasn't the prettiest girl, or the most voluptuous, or even the most fit – those titles belonged to other girls – but as a teenage boy, he had to admit to a dream or two with her in the starring role.

Lightly glossed, pink lips beneath his, soft tanned skin under his fingers, subtle curves molded to flat planes – they _were_ easy fantasy material, although he never held the total absorption and reverent awe that Max held for the girl. The innocent shine that drew him like a moth to a flame, had dimmed as she got involved with boys that didn't deserve the glint of intelligence and subtle spark of mischief in her eyes. He, himself, had come to think her no more than your average girl, until a darkened alley renewed his interest and he was struck dumb by molasses-colored irises flashing with courage and challenge, despite an underlying current of fear.

The third, and most important, thing he noticed was her heart. The innocence faded, the bright eyes took on a slight cynical glint the further she travelled the alien abyss, but it didn't diminish the golden glow of her heart. It had stayed remarkably intact in spite of everything, the tragedies that would have sent a lesser person screaming for the hills. It held the innate kindness and charm he'd recalled from their youth, even if it had wised up over the tears and heartbreaks that could have easily left her hard and bitter.

But the most irresistible part of her was the care she showed him time and again; even when he pushed her away; the way she trusted him without question; the way she turned to him for comfort and it was his arms that held her when Max had been missing; the way she accepted him without thought. It was intoxicating, unnerving and made him feel as if he could move mountains if he tried. And most of all, above everything else, it was the way she looked at him, as if she really saw him, as if nothing else mattered in her world.

**I is for Infatuation. **


	10. Letter J

**AN: **The last few letters have been linked, but that wasn't really the true intent of this exercise. After this one, I'm going to try to make these a bit more generalized Polar opposed to a specific story line. Although, knowing me, they'll still stick close to the story unfolding.

* * *

**J is for Justification.** He had counting the days down, just waiting for this moment, the time when Max would try to justify his actions to Liz and keep her firmly under his thumb. Max was so predictable by now and so adept at pulling the wool over his own eyes, wallowing in self-denial, that Michael could nail it down almost to the second. It was the same story, different day, just the players were different. Instead of Max justifying his actions to him or Isabel, it was Liz and Tess. Really it did get old after the hundredth telling.

"…_it was hard to explain…almost like I couldn't control it…"_

First Max would panic, knowing he'd done something wrong, but always unable to face up to the consequences of his actions, he'd shut down, flee and deny it ever happened. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, he'd never do anything so thoughtless, so hurtful. After all, he was Max and Max always thinks things through, he is cautious and analytical and…well you get the picture. It's never his fault really, it was due to extenuating circumstances. Obviously.

_"I mean, I was just drawn to her and I couldn't stop myself…"_

Then, he'd brood. And when Max brooded, it was a several day process. He locked himself up into his room, put his favorite brooding music (Isabel swore if she heard that Counting Crows CD one more time, she was going to snap it in two) on and wallowed, mentally beating himself up, aghast at how his life had gotten so out of control. And this led to Michael's favorite part of the Max justification process…

_"It was like being under a spell…"_

It wasn't him. Really it wasn't, it couldn't be, because after all, Max is perfect – the perfect student, the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect best friend – he would never belittle or tear another person down (despite the fact that Michael and Isabel had been on the sharp end of that all too careless tongue several times). So, if it wasn't him, it had to be alien! Yes, that's it…it was an alien reaction; something else was governing him and well, if it were an alien quirk, of course he couldn't help himself. He didn't understand his past or biology, so how could he control it? Really it all made perfect sense – for a mental patient.

_"I didn't even know she was going to be there…"_

**J is for Jealousy. **Smirking to himself,he hovered quietly near the door, surreptitiously listening to the nervous babbling explanation, shaking his head in wonder. Sometimes he did hate being right. He had to admit, Max sold a good story when he really wanted. If he hadn't been on the receiving end so many times, he'd have even bought the act. So perfectly contrite, so perfectly humble, all the while a calculating and manipulative brain was processing his intended prey's actions and movements so he could effectively tailor his arguments and sob stories to the appropriate audience.

You had to give the man credit; he did know how to make himself look good no matter his foibles and slights. It was a skill Michael envied, never having been able to string words together as effectively. Words weren't his forte and he had never grasped the subtle art of making nice. No he had always been an act now, think later sort that believed that actions spoke louder than words. Which is probably why he never fell for the Max act. Words can lie, actions cannot.

_"You have to understand…"_

Soft tone, sweet words, a tremble to the voice – it was all effectuated, yet always seem to hit the target's mark. A slow, acidic burn built in his chest as he listened to Max spin his web, oh so carefully inviting his prey into his living room with false platitudes and promises, all the while knowing that he had been able to talk Liz around before and could very well make a believer of her once more. Max had to have been a politician in his past life or the equivalent of the used car sales man or snake charmer.

He just made it sound so good.

Bile rose in his throat, casting a sour note in the back of his mouth. It sickened him, ate him up in side that people fell for his lines over and over again; but more, that Liz fell for it time and again. She deserved better than condescending platitudes. An ill feeling swirled in his gut, adding to the fire, the burn of pure, unadulterated anger and jealousy blazed through his chest as he heard Liz humming and hawing as he stumbled through his story of the other night. He could almost picture her face, so sympathetic and understanding, the hint of tears in her eyes as she touched his hand softly, soothing is fears and telling him it was okay, she understood. It was enough to make one scream.

And then Max made a fatal mistake…

_"It's you I care about…_

**J is for Jeer. **The words seemed to echo through the room despite the fact it was barely more than a shy whisper. Even he had to wince at the blunder, knowing that it was a bad idea to state your feelings in such a lukewarm, apathetic way when you had just been avowing love and a lifetime together just days before. He may be repressed and stunted emotionally, but even he could hear the falseness to that statement and as astute as Liz is, she was bound to pick up on the halfhearted proclamation.

"_Care about?"_ came the slightly incredulous musing, forcing me to repress a snicker. _"Interesting how in the matter of days it's gone from love to you 'care about' me."_

He knew that was going to snag her attention. There was no way that Liz was not going to see through that particular statement. One had to be blind not to pick up on the change in his stance on their relationship. It all but screamed 'Yes, I want you, but you know, the blonde is rather hot as well and I'm curious." Really Maxwell, you could do better.

"_No, I mean…yes, of course I love you. I just meant..."_

Ah, and here comes the backpedaling. So much for eloquence.

_"Save it, Max,"_ she firmly stated, pausing for a moment before continuing on in a wry, implacable tone._ "Okay, so you felt a pull towards her, you couldn't resist her, she 'put a spell on you, or whatever you want to call it – they're called hormones. There is nothing mystical or alien about them. So, you're drawn to her. It's perfectly natural. It's okay, really. I get it, I really do."_

He couldn't help but chuckle softly at the dressing down. Is it any wonder he was enamored of the girl – intelligent, analytical, logical – it was refreshing.

"_Liz, I knew you'd understand…"_

He wouldn't bet on that.

_"But, you still kissed her. Despite the fact that you told me I was the only one you wanted, you went right over to her and kissed her anyway. And if it happened once, it's likely to happen again. That is what I can't overlook."_

**J is for Jewel. **She was rare, priceless; some would even claim she was a diamond in the rough, but he disagreed. Diamonds were far too plentiful, commercialized and lacked a certain panache, not to mention seemed flashy and cold. To him, she was more like an opal – a black opal – rare, precious, with hidden depths that burned in all the colors of the rainbow if you held it in the right light. A cool, quiet beauty at first glance, until you know what that placid façade masks, and far more enchanting than the glimmer and glitz that came with the more popular gemstone. It's a shame few get the opportunity to see them, to see what I see.

"_It won't…I promise…"_

"_Don't make promises we know you can't keep Max."_

She couldn't have been more right. Hadn't they for all intents and purposes made the same vows and promises, albeit silently rather than with words? It had failed miserably for them and given the fire in Max's voice when he mentioned Tess' name, he wouldn't have believed his words either. It was too easy to forget pacts made in the silence of night when everything you desire is standing right in front of you desiring the same.

_"You don't know what might happen when you see her again._"

Max's silence spoke for itself; it seemed to ring through the room with an honesty that even the most skilled story weaver couldn't contradict. And _he_ remembered all to well where platitudes and avoidance had landed the two of _them_; he still burned from stolen kisses, ached for what should have never happened, intoxicated by the scent of vanilla and rain, haunted by the taste of strawberry, desire and forbidden dreams.

_"I tried. I tried being what you wanted. When you said it couldn't happen, I tried to respect that, but you could never really leave me alone. I've given into your whims, compromised despite it hurting me, allowed you to step back twice…."_

And yet, Max still could not see what had been staring him right in the face. Still couldn't appreciate the gem that he'd once held within the palm of his hand. He took her for granted; assumed that she would always understand; that she would be waiting in the wings while he dallied with destiny. But he'd always misunderstood her, never seeing the true beauty, the quiet strength that silently shone in those fathomless eyes.

Michael knew that_ he_ wouldn't make the same mistake.

_"There is a lot I would have given up for you, but not my pride. I won't be second best to anyone. Not even for you."_

**J is for Judgment.**


	11. Letter K

**K is for Karma.** What goes around, comes around. We reap what we sow. What you send out into the world will come back to you in threes. Every culture and religion has a form of karmic law, or a saying that in essence vows that anything you do in the past will be revisited upon you, usually multiplied by x-times in the future or your next life.

Looking at the remains of the dingy, dirty tin can that once posed as his home, he can't help but wonder what he had done in the past to deserve the rough, violent beginning of his life here on Earth. He had no memories of Antar, but he must have been a right bastard to have fallen into Hank's careless, brutal hands. And if he searched deep enough, he could remember the cries of the men that fell beneath his sword, the pleas for mercy on a smoky battlefield, the glares of the condemned, those declared traitor to their state, as they were systematically executed without reprieve.

But he disliked touching on that violent part of him; not because he felt shame for his ruthless actions, as he saw them as justice done, or as protecting his loved ones; no, he avoided it because a dark part of him welcomed that sweet call of blood lust. It sang to him, a siren's call beckoning him to pick up blade and war once again, especially every time a Skin or Special Unit member got too close to his loved ones for his comfort. It was only cool, rational brown eyes that pulled back from the brink when that happened.

Because, for all the violence in his heart, he also wondered what he had done to deserve _her_. His abusive youth made sense in a sick way; poetic justice given all those he'd struck down in the name of Antar. But then, if he were paying for past mistakes, why would the gods, the fates, the muses, or hell, the purple and blue butterflies everywhere, or whatever you wanted to attribute the rise and fall of man; why would they grace him with such bounty?

He could see nothing in his life, past or present, that stood out and screamed, 'I'm worthy!' In fact, everything he saw screamed 'whipping boy' or 'not salvageable.' But it didn't seem to matter to her; _she_ looked at him with those quiet, loving eyes that spoke volumes above the chaotic, destructive thoughts in his head; and for once, he almost thought he too was worthy of redemption.

**K is for Keep.** He'd seen her writing in it often, that little black book that she seemed to protect and guard as if it held all the secrets in the world, and it had instantly made him suspicious. He knew how girls were due to Isabel – or really, her silly, giggly girlfriends who seemed to catalog every, single, unimportant, mundane moment of their life into pretty pages pasted between jewel-toned covers. But she'd never seemed like the type to fill her pages with frivolous prattle about some boy looking at her or wondering when her next date would happen. Frankly, unlike most girls their age, she seemed to to have her head screwed on straight and ignored the many admiring eyes that followed her throughout the day; it had given him a certain amount of grudging respect for the petite brunette Max was obsessed over.

Which is why, now that she was filling pages of a plain black journal, he couldn't help feeling leery. It screamed of secrets, and as far as he was aware, the only new secret she'd learned was theirs. He'd hoped that he hadn't been right; that she hadn't filled the pages about them, but he had to know the risk, had to know what it said and whether he needed to destroy it to keep his tiny family safe. So, of course, he snuck into her room and stole it.

He hadn't meant to cause a panic, although, he should have realized it would given how closely she guarded her secrets; how careful she'd been with theirs. But once he had gotten his hands on her journal, he had been reluctant to relinquish it. Not because of the information it contained – although, it could have been a serious breach in their security if it had fallen into the wrong hands – but because of the soul he'd found in those pages. Written between the lines, was a heart that stunned him and truly made him feel a bit envious.

A sentiment he shared when he returned the journal to her; that is, once he'd heard the uproar he'd inadvertently caused when it went missing. And staring into those relieved, glowing eyes, a soft flush suffusing her cheeks, that stab of envy reinstated itself. And he couldn't help but think as he'd sauntered away that this one was a keeper.

**K is for Kaleidoscopic.** '_Changing form, pattern, color, etc., in a manner suggesting a kaleidoscope. Continually shifting from one set of relations to another; rapidly changing._' He'd once had a kaleidoscope; he'd found it lying in the middle of some rubbish heap one day when he was eight, looking worn, weary, beat-up and abandoned by the one who'd once owned it – just like him. Out of curiosity, he'd picked it up and had been instantly amazed at the bright, bold jewels that laid within a seemingly boring, ordinary package; their shapes and patterns rapidly changing and fluctuating with every shake and twist, and yet each of it's versions remained bright, sparkling, wondrous – beautiful.

So is it any wonder that he would chose this word to describe her?

When he was younger, and Max would prattle on and on about 'Liz this' and 'Liz that,' he'd remained unimpressed. Yes, truly, she had been pretty in that almost forgettable, girl-next-door way. And yes, she was sweet, but she remained serious, aloof, untouchable and seemingly nothing like the bright jewels he'd hoarded, concealed away where Hank and the others couldn't touch them. That kaleidoscope had set his impression of beauty long before it was ever a conscious thought in his mind. He really should have learned from its packaging that the seemingly bland can shelter the most stunning of beauties.

It wasn't until she had crash landed into his world that he understood what Max had been babbling about for years. There was just something about this girl that made her stand out above the others. The quiet, unassuming beauty on the outside, hid a stunning mind and a soul, which shamed him for his uncharitable thoughts in its sheer resplendence.

How could he have missed this the first time around?

But the most amazing thing was, for all the twists and turns their lives had thrown her, for all the times some alien event had shook the foundation of their world, for every time the alien abyss forced her to change, mutate and adapt to whatever crisis had arisen; she remained the very definition of his favorite childhood treasure.

Kaleidoscopic – ever-changing, rapidly fluctuating, but bright, sparkling, wondrous...

Beautiful.

**K is for Kiss.** He hadn't meant for it to happen; in fact, he had been avoiding being alone with her for weeks, hoping to keep the growing feelings in his heart from spilling over and making him do something they'd both regret. Something that would irrevocably rock their world. But fate had other plans.

The first time their lips met, he swore it was as if his soul had caught on fire. The world dimmed around him and narrowed down to those two lips brushing across his, sending his head reeling and his heart pounding, his skin tingling as those liquid flames rushed through his veins like magma. It was intoxicating, illuminating and felt like nothing he had ever felt before.

It was also forbidden fruit, but his mind didn't concern itself with that assessment at the time, too caught up in the kiss as he pulled her closer still, his every nerve jumping to life, as if shocked by electricity, which shot through and tangled and danced along his system at the first, tentative touch of a soft, warm tongue against his. And he reveled in it, let the fire consume him and drag him into the heart of the inferno, uncaring as to the destructive force they'd unwittingly unleashed.

And when he pulled back, drowning in molten chocolate eyes, as she laid flushed and breathless beneath him, something inside him hit the flashpoint as he watched bridges burning in their depths. The stark realization of what they'd done, and the potential devastation that it could leave behind, sucked all the oxygen from the air as they stood in the middle of the beginnings of a firestorm, ashes raining down around them as their safe, happy little bubble imploded.

Scrambling away from one another, they stared at the remains, a cold horror stealing over their hearts, both mute as the structure of their lives audibly snapped and collapsed around them in a shower of embers. Shaking her head silently in denial, she'd fled, intent on forgetting the wildfire that had burnt so brightly, consuming them for one frantic, unbelievable moment.

But it was for naught. As once a firestorm is unleashed, it's nearly impossible to contain, as everything, from the merest whisper of wind, or in this case words, to the bright, unyielding heat of the sun, or the simmer of bronze eyes, fueled and fanned the inferno, creating a fire whirl, that natural, spinning vortex of flames, that would end up burning them from the inside out.

**K is for Kerosene.**


	12. Letter L

**L is for Lost. **He had been wandering aimlessly for what felt like hours, hut honestly must have only been one at the most, the freezing November rain plastering his clothing to his skin and hiding his tears in plain sight, not that he would ever admit that he'd let a few fall. After another rousing evening of needling and being told he was nothing more than a worthless freak only good for the check his fostering provided, he'd stormed out of the stifling tin can Hank called home and headed for his sanctuary, completely forgetting that Max and Isabel were visiting family that weekend until he was nearly halfway to their house.

He had been far more concerned with and concentrating too hard on not losing the fragile hold he had on the reins of his volatile powers, that it wasn't until he managed to curtail the crackling anger surrounding him that he recalled the locked and empty house.

After standing on the corner of Magnolia and Vine streets for several minutes, feeling utterly discouraged and a bit astray, he shrugged the discomfiting feelings off and turned to the left, walking on a directionless course until he stumbled onto a street that had become familiar in his night time 'strolls' (read his escapes from Hank's questionable brand of love and fatherly concern). Staring at a pretty, cozy house in the middle of the block, he gave a bitter laugh that he was drawn to this home filled with hope, happiness and laughter, touched here and there by something slightly kooky.

But then again, what else could one expect from Maria and her mother?

It shined cheerfully in the dimming light, slightly off kilter, but a warm, inviting and solid beacon in the cold. It was yet one more place closed off to the likes of him – his kind didn't belong in bright, golden place like this.

Scuffing his foot, he ignored the pang in his heart that yearned for a touch of kindness, knowing that silent cry would fall on deaf ears and the wish a useless endeavor, and he continued down the street, practically invisible to the blithe, laughing families that lined it. The only exception to the rule, were those that watched him with wary eyes, as if they expected him to bum rush them or break down their, pretty, cookie-cutter doors and cart off all their dubious treasures.

Scoffing to himself, he sneered at one such person as they peered out of their cold-frosted window, tracking his progress and he couldn't help smirking at the slight touch of fear that sparked in the woman's eyes when she realized she'd been made and shut the curtains with a twitch of her hand. If they all were as Godly and benevolent as they liked to believe, they would have offered him a place to wait out the storm, rather than left a cold, wet teenager out in the pouring rain.

But that was for people like Max – the perfect son and student, who gave shy smiles instead of bitter smirks.

Which lead him to where he was now standing; his feet always lead him here eventually, no matter how long he wandered or how desperately he tried to say away, he always found himself staring into the brightly lit windows of the Crashdown. Saturated and frozen down to the bone, he stared in, debating on whether he should enter the diner or not, but he never had the opportunity to reach a firm conclusion as bright brown eyes stared up at him and a low husky voice broke through his reverie.

"Michael, what are you doing out there?" Liz asked as she came to the door and stared out into the darkness, a halo of light surrounding her. "You'll catch your death. Get in here before you get sick."

**L is for Longing. **She had grabbed his hand and pulled him int the brightly lit diner before he could protest, the light so blinding after wandering in the darkness for so long, it made his eyes water. Or at least that's the excuse he gave himself as she bundled him off to the bathroom with a towel and a change of clothing; it definitely had nothing to do with ache building in his chest and constricting his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. And it most definitely had nothing to do with the sweet smile she tossed him as she told him that a hot cup of coffee and a slice of cake would be waiting for him at his usual booth, 'on the house.'

Because he was immune to such sweetness.

Sliding into the booth in what could only be her father's sweats, he picked up the steaming cup, letting the warmth of the glass leach the icy cold from his fingers, one that had built during night time wandering, while Liz gathered his sodden clothing, chirping something about putting them into the dryer for him. Watching as she all but floated out of the dining room, he tried to fathom out what he was feeling. She had always been a bit f an enigma to him, and often brought a flood of uncomfortable emotions in her wake, which is why he often went out of his way to avoid her.

Sipping the scalding beverage, he sat, quietly observing as she came back in, chatting brightly with a couple of customers, but he could tell from her lack of uniform that it was her night off and she was likely down here doing her homework. Smiling wanly when looked up and flashed him that winsome smile that Maxed so often waxed poetic about, he inhaled sharply and averted his gaze, a stab of envy slashing through his heart.

What would it feel like, to have that warm, open acceptance all of your life?

Closing his eyes, he ignored the stinging in the backs of his eyes, attributing it to sudden dryness due to the warmth of the cafe after the damp, cold night. It couldn't be anything else. When he opened them again, Liz was perched on a stool at the counter, leaning against it and chattering at her grinning father,obviously weaving some story about school or her earlier shift, her hands waving in emphasis to some point as the other man let out a hearty chuckle.

Swallowing thickly, he looked away as his throat closed up, the coffee traveling down it like shards of glass as it worked its way over the lump lodged there. He felt like he was intruding on a deeply personal, private moment between father and daughter, but it found it difficult to look away for long, drawn to them like a moth to a flame. And in their typical open way, father and daughter invited the scrutiny, entreating the world to share in their joy.

A concept he never understood.

**L is Laughter. **It was bright as sunshine and twice as warm as it spilled over her lips, each sparkling note tugging at something he'd carefully buried long ago for his own sanity. But that reserve never worked around her – she was one of those people that seemed to suspend all rules and formalities until you were lost in a sea of light and air and radiance; and you didn't quite know how to close off those cold, dark places once you'd been exposed.

Shifting his gaze away from Liz and her father, his heart hitched when her mother came through the door, drawn by the effervescent, delighted laughter that rang through the diner; one that garnered soft smiles and answering chuckles, although he doubted anyone knew why they laughed. It was just that infectious – a perfect vision of familial bliss as Liz's mother slid onto the stool next to her and wrapped an affectionate arm around her shoulders, listening to the remaining conversation with a half-smile.

And it made him ache.

There, he admitted it; it wasn't just Max Evans that he envied.

Swallowing the rest of the now lukewarm coffee, he set the empty cup onto the table, startling when it was instantly filled by a passing waitress, who smiled blandly at him when he looked up before she moved on; he felt momentarily confused at the attention, but then he caught the glance between the waitress and Liz, and realization dawned. Of course, Liz had talked to the waitress and asked her to watch over him.

Swiping a hand over his face, he wanted to let out a bitter chuckle, but that would negate the kindness Liz had shown him this evening and it wasn't her fault that he was viewed less than favorably by most of the town.

Keeping his eyes pinned to the swirling dark liquid in his mug, he flinched when those silvery tones echoed through the dining room again and he noted Liz slipping from her seat to head to the back room and her parents exchanging a fond smile from the corner of his eye. It made his insides twist, a flutter of resentment and jealously fluttering through his gut before he quashed it ruthlessly. She didn't deserve his antagonism when she had done nothing to earn it.

All because a dark, secret part of him longed for her life.

**L is for Love. **It was apparent in every move and gesture that her parents made towards each other – the loving looks that spoke volumes, the tender touches that were made without thought, all done without words because they weren't necessary.

But most apparent tonight was their love for her. Their faces just lit up when she entered the room- the pride and joy they took in her evident and bled through all their actions. It was patently obvious that she was the light of their lives; that she always had been and always would be no matter what she did with her life. Especially as she came back out with a bundle of clothing, flashing them that irrepressible grin that told everyone just how happy they made her, before she walked over to him with his now warm, dry clothing.

Those looks made him burn inside.

"Here you are, Michael," she smiled, setting them on the other bench. "For whenever you're ready."

Smirking at her, he toasted her with his mug and downed the hot liquid, only wincing slightly as it scalded its way down his throat. Grabbing the stack of clothing, he quickly made his way to the bathroom and changed, carefully folding and placing Mr. Parker's clothes aside. Sighing he walked over to the sink and washed his hands, startled by the sadness that shined out of his eyes. Closing his eyes to the pain lurking in them, he reconstructed his 'I don't give a damn' mask and stepped out the door, swiftly making his way to the dining room.

"Michael, come join us," Liz called out as he entered, waving him over to where she was sitting with her parents, both of whom also sent him a welcoming smile. It was tempting to join them, to pretend that he was a normal teen for just one night. But he didn't have the luxury of clinging to impossible dreams; it made the harsh, cold reality of his life that much more heartbreaking.

"Can't," he shrugged negligently, not allowing them to see how much it hurt to stand there and watch their joy and smiled weakly as he nodded the door. "Have to get going."

"Are you sure," Liz asked, frowning thoughtfully. "We could call..."

"I'm sure," he interrupted, desperately trying to quell the fear that rose in his chest, choking off his air supply before he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He could just imagine Hank's reaction to a call and the vitriol that would spew from his mouth at the mention of his 'beloved' foster son. He didn't need any more pity. "Thanks for the invite, but you know how Isabel is – I should get moving."

"It's a terrible night to be out," Liz hedged, turning concerned brown eyes to the still falling rain, looking as if she were about to call his bluff. Flinching internally at the thought, he waved her off impatiently and headed towards the door. The last thing he needed was for her to find out that he had nowhere to go.

"It's okay," he smirked, hoping to get out of there before she recalled that Max and Isabel were away that weekend. "I like walking in the rain."

"Well," Liz said, walking over to him and gently placed something in his hand; he looked down questioningly, his breath hitching slightly when he saw an umbrella and a Crashdown bag. "At least take these with you. No need for you to get drenched before you get home. Next time?"

"Ummm...yeah, sure, next time," he stammered, knowing it for the fabrication it was as he stared at her blankly even as she smiled brightly at him, once again at a loss of what to make of this girl that had crash landed into his world. "I should go."

Stepping out into the night, he let the darkness descend over him, making him feel at ease. He was comfortable with the dark and didn't need the bright, garish happiness that seeped out the Crashdown's door. Placing a hand to the frosted glass, he looked in at the warm, joyful scene one final time and then squared his shoulders, tucking the umbrella under his arm, turned and walked away, the rain falling quietly around him.

He didn't need the light; it was better this way, lost here in the dark. It was known and never expected too much of him, unlike those bright, blithe faces in the happy, shiny houses.

**L is for Lie. **


	13. Letter M

**M is for Masquerade.** Shakespeare once said, '_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts_...' His life had often felt like a stage, a grand script being acted out on an intergalactic level, written by some not so benevolent being that had no care for the players so long as it entertained the masses. And he thrust into a part that didn't fit, as if they were trying to force him into some preconceived mold; one he had no intention of _ever_ embracing. It was abrasive, tight, suffocating and cast by some other's design, not through any will or composition of his own. Yet he was stuck, playing it out like a good, little soldier, unintentionally fulfilling their slightest whim.

So to save himself from losing hold onto the thin threads of his sanity, he'd donned a masque of his own; one that was cool and uncaring, indifferent to the hurtling plot encompassing him. A facade he presented to this world, and his own, to protect the far too fragile heart that felt the slings and blows and bruises far more deeply than he'd wanted those ice cold deities that orchestrated his life to know. He was nothing more than a game to them, a toy, a story to be told and retold, playing out in the same manner in an endless, heart-wrenching cycle and he refused to allow them any more pleasure in his pain than necessary.

It wasn't a perfect masque; he'd never mastered true indifference, being far too fiery and passionate for his own good. He couldn't hide himself away completely; but he embraced it nonetheless and had been satisfied when most shied away from it, the chinks subtle and unapparent to the mindless masses. He'd hidden them far too well behind the cynical smile that graced his lips, twisting his face into something not quite human at times, and the bitter light shone through his eyes.

Not that it mattered; few dared to question the smoke and mirrors he hid behind; no one cared to...until her.

She challenged him, with spirited, bronzed eyes that saw into the depths of his soul and scoffed at the lie he'd built, bringing to life emotions best left drowning in the abyss he'd created in his heart. Artfully chipping away at his guise, leaving him bare, naked, exposed – _free_ – with nothing more than a few words, a soft touch, a look that told him that she wasn't buying his act, by the role he'd been shoved into through circumstances beyond his control.

Treating him as if he were worth something; treating him as if he were deserving; treating him as if he alone was all that mattered.

It was difficult remaining unattached, unaffected, _unmoved_, when she wove that spell around him, morphing his world and creating, casting him into a part that he'd never thought he'd live to see. And it made him _want_. Made him _ache_. Made him forget that he hadn't been born into that shining crowd, that shining light that suffused her and others of her ilk.

Made him think, that one day, he might find that light too. One day.

This power of hers confused him, frightened him and yet, he couldn't help craving more. And the closer he drew to that beacon, the more he had been changed, until the mask fell away, laying in nothing but tatters at his feet, broken beyond repair. But he didn't care, because, in her eyes, he was whole, loved, and he felt completely, utterly, irrevocably...

**M is for Mesmerized.** He knew that he should be wary of her draw; it would only lead to heartache, as love and fine things weren't meant for people who lived in tin shacks and barely could afford enough to keep themselves alive. But she had this pull on everyone she touched and he was no different; all he could do was watch on helplessly, in dumbfounded awe as she spun her web, uncertain what it was about her that captivated him so readily.

But whatever it was, it was intoxicating.

Most people would have assumed that this power came from the bright, bubbly blonde that was forever at her side, always sparkling and grabbing for attention, but he'd been studying them for weeks and soon came to the conclusion that the world was blind. Although, he had already seen evidence in that due to the part he had been unfairly cast into. But rather than her being cast into the shadows by her friend's natural vibrant, effervescent personality, it was the reverse.

She had always been the center of their universe, thoughtlessly casting out drops of her own brilliance to all who stood near, so that they too could shine and share in her radiance. Thus making them appear larger than life.

He found it ironic in a way, that the bright, glittering blonde was actually the one that orbited around the quiet, cool elegant brunette. It seemed to defy the natural order of things. After all, hadn't they not been taught that those with a lesser luminescence always circled those with the higher? That it was the moon and Earth that orbited around the sun?

But then, she'd always defied the odds.

And he thought, perhaps, they needed to shift their perspectives just a touch; because, to what purpose does the sun exist without the Earth to give it meaning?

Without it, it's just another star.

**M is for Marked.** She'd changed his life, this slip of a girl; opened his eyes to a whole realm he'd never understood. One he'd never wanted to understand, because, to taste heaven, and then have it ruthlessly and viciously ripped away by the puppet masters that had engineered his life, it would have been more heartbreaking than his fragile heart could bear. It was a sweetness long denied to him – everyone's favorite whipping boy – due to careless caretakers and family untrue.

He was only fit for scorn; fit only for chastisement.

He didn't want to set himself up for his inevitable fall at the hands of those who tried to tell him they were his better; that looked down their noses and cast him into the sewer because he wasn't one of _them_.

But she...she never played by _their_ rules, and when they tried to rein her in, she'd thumbed her nose at them, blatantly defying their world order and ignored the loaded whispers that warned her to leave well enough alone. How many times had she stood at his side, gloriously defiant and unrepentant in her stance? How many times had she had his back, protector and a very demon when properly riled? How many times had she stood in front of him, his shield and the first line of his defense?

Too many times to count; and all done in that unselfish, thoughtless way that showed the world that he was essential to hers. And for this, he'd gladly wear her brand, bright and bold, glinting on the third finger of his left hand, a ring that screamed to the world that he was hers, and then follow her into hell itself if she asked. Because she proudly and defiantly wore a matching ring, that spoke volumes above the fray.

**M is for Melt.** It's what he did every time she was nearby.

His thaw began when he first met her, that brave young girl who had stood in his path and stared him down, a fierce, desperate light in her eyes despite the way her body had quaked under the force of his best glare. The way she had looked at him, half-afraid that he might strike her down where she stood, and half like she was going to drop kick his ass if he didn't stop being an utter idiot, standing her ground had earned his reluctant admiration and melted a bit of the icy fear that held them apart.

That thawing grew as time marched on, reaching a small stream when she'd once again stepped in front of him, but this time in defense, shielding him from the pretty little alien hunter that had used her guise of teacher to get information on him and his kind. The FBI agent had thought that she was clever, posing as a harmless guidance counselor, and able to outsmart a few teenagers if not the world.

But not her.

She had seen through her friendly act, and innocent looking face, ripping away her mask for all to see with just a bit of help from their friendly, neighborhood hacker that just happened to be her best friend. To protect them. And to protect him most of all when she went against the fearless leaders dictates and showed up on his front doorstep, facing the vile scum he called a foster father, all to make certain he stayed safe. Because his life mattered to her.

And then...he'd held her in his arms, and he'd been lost.

A chance meeting.

An unforeseen accident.

A kiss.

And that was all that it had taken to start the deluge. It had been one simple kiss and yet it had rocked the entire world with them as the epicenter. A nuclear bomb exploding, and them ground zero. A level five hurricane, and them the eye of the storm. It had the power to undo his world, to remake it, to reshape it into what he had today.

He drowned in that heat; in those sweet kisses that set his soul on fire, that burned and flamed and eventually cracked, then shattered and finally completely obliterated the ice that had wrapped around his heart. Those kisses were his own personal sun; one that warmed him on the coldest of nights, one that indeed finally brought that elusive, shining light that annihilated the dark that had clouded his life.

She was nothing but a slip of a girl; one he had never intended to talk to, much less let so far into the play that was his life. But in her typical, stubborn way, she wouldn't take no for an answer and rewrote the script, firmly insinuating herself into what was supposed to be his one-man show. And to be honest, he couldn't even complain. The truth was, he didn't miss that masque, and it felt great to give those, now, not so smug deities the finger, as he'd had the last laugh.

**M is for Metamorphosis.**


	14. Letter N

**N is for Nightmare.** He awoke, gasping for breath, visions of what had been dancing before bleak, blank eyes, sending a spike of pain slicing through his breast like a red-hot knife, the brackish taste of defeat, failure and betrayal lingering on his tongue. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to clear away the helpless cries sounding in his head, making his ears ring, and inhaled deeply, swiping away the sweat that had gathered on his brow and pooled in the hollow of his throat.

It was the same every night since he'd undergone the reawakening of his memories – dreams of what had been, and what could have been, haunted his mind, filling him with a chilling sense of dread, leaving him weak and broken under the unrelenting sense that he'd failed his family, his people, his king and queen.

He'd once wanted nothing more than to understand his roots, to know the place he'd been born, to find the answers to the questions constantly swirling in his mind. He'd burned with an all-consuming need to know his alien past, hoping that once he'd learned that, he would feel comfortable within his own skin; that he would know from whence some of those self-destructive thoughts and whispers in his ears had stemmed. So when the man named Kal, one of their supposed protectors who'd abandoned them to their fate, had contacted them in an uncharacteristic burst of remorse and offered the chance for answers, he'd jumped at the chance.

But faced with the images of a broken world, his people crying out for mercy under Kivar's reign of cruelty and drive for the throne, of betrayal at the hands of a woman he'd once loved more than life itself, he wished he'd resisted that siren call. It had brought nothing but heartache, as by the end of the ten-year war, sparked by a family squabble – his cousin had disagreed with the way Zan had allied himself to Savo, the newest in their federation and wanted Rath on the throne – Antar had been destroyed, broken, blackened

beyond redemption by unnatural fire. And he – he had been a twisted parody of the man that had begun the war.

The longer the feud went on, dragging innocents into a spat that should have remained behind closed doors, the more embittered and cold he had grown; a ruthless warrior with no care to the precious lives he'd once set out to protect.

It left him sickened and disillusioned; heaving up the contents of his stomach as the smell of burnt flesh, singed by his own hand, filled his nose. And aching, completely lost in despair for what had become of them in the final days.

**N is for Nadir** – _the lowest point; point of greatest adversity or despair_. In the last days, he'd been an empty shell of a man. The king he'd sworn fealty to was dead, slain by his own sister's hand, _his_ wife's hand when she aligned herself with their enemy, having always coveted the throne. He couldn't blame her in some ways. She had been the eldest, the first born, and in a fair world, the throne would have been hers by birthright. But old men's suspicions and prejudices set her aside in favor of her younger brother.

But to betray your own flesh...that he couldn't comprehend.

His queen fell next, her throat slit before his eyes by Kivar while he was held down by his disgusting, sniveling sycophant Nicolaos, too broken and beaten to even raise his head. He only saw her death as Nicolaos took great pleasure in holding his head aloft by his hair, a vindictive cackle rumbling from his throat that he, the great warrior that had bested him far too numerous times to count, was riven at his feet.

He owed that little pipsqueak for being forced to watch that horror; if ever he ran into him again, his life was forfeit for being party to the desecration of his queen, the woman he thought of as a sister, one he loved heart and soul. The one he had sworn to protect with his very life when he'd sat by her mother's death bed. Nicolaos would die by his hand for seeing him foresworn, unable to fulfill that deathbed promise.

He figured once Avalina was dead, he would be the next to fall; but that would have been a mercy to what happened next, and his cousin wasn't all that keen on showing mercy to the one that had denied him. In punishment for not banding with his cousin, for remaining faithful to and holding true to his king and queen, he was forced to play witness to the destruction of all they held dear. He'd been strung up, tied to a post and held there for days without food and little water as Kivar systematically executed the entire royal family and those loyal to them, until finally, terrified and broken, the people cowered and prostrated at his feet.

It was then the beatings began; the whip slicing through his skin until it hung from his shoulders and back in ribbons, blood pouring from the open, festering wounds, drenching his clothing and pooling on the ground. Kivar sought to break him, to make him admit that Kivar had been right and he should have joined him while he'd had the chance. He could have lived the life of a king, with his beautiful, treacherous, foresworn wife at his side – but he had refused to capitulate.

Instead he'd spat in Kivar's eye and called him eweling droppings, not even fit for gracing the bottom of his boot.

And in a final show of defiance, he'd used the last of his flagging strength to break free and struck down the traitorous bitch at his side with a single, decisive blast of his powers. He'd grinned smugly when her eyes had widened a split second in surprise before the dimmed, lifeless as she crumpled to the ground. And then he too had fallen, drained by that final defiant blast; he hadn't even felt the mortal blow as Kivar exploded into a rage, infuriated that his ties to the throne had snapped when Vilondra took her last breath.

**N is for Nebulous.** The memories always left him feeling dazed, lost, scattered; drifting between reality and dream, vacillating between the past and the present.

Confusion reigned as he gazed at the ceiling, his heart still thrumming madly as he swiped a weary hand over his face; he knew there was no point in him staying in bed as sleep would be elusive until he made sense of these new images. Pushing aside his blankets, he sent a cursory glance towards his wife, making sure she was still asleep, and when he was met with a serene face, still lost in dreams, he let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She really needed the sleep this late in the pregnancy and their nights had been interrupted far too many times to count by these dreams.

Sliding from the bed, he padded into the kitchen and set about making himself some cocoa, one of those soothing rituals they'd adopted when they were still teens and their love was new. It never failed to bring clarity and order to the chaos in his mind, brought on by visions he barely understood. Shivering lightly, his skin pebbled as a wave of unknown apprehension flowed over his body, the adrenaline still pumping through his system, prompting him to take flight despite the fact that there was no visible foe.

He hated this feeling, this ambiguous, nebulous sense of dread that came over him, pushing his warrior instincts surging to the fore; because there was also nothing to fight. You couldn't slay dreams or memories no matter how hard you wished. They were always there, floating under the surface, lying low until a prodigious weakened moment and then creeping up when you least expect to ambush you – usually in the dead of night.

It was in times like these that he envied amnesia victims; it would be pure bliss to forget, to live in that oblivious little bubble he'd shattered with his own curiosity.

Running a hand through his hair, he heaved a ragged sigh and sipped his chocolate, startling when a hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Looking up into soft, concerned brown eyes, he felt the edges start to melt away under that gaze and sighed in relief when she eased her way into his arms.

**N is for Nepenthe** – _something, like a drink, capable of making one forget suffering_. Her touch was a balm to his soul, smoothing away the rough jags, comforting and washing away the sting of betrayal, of failure. Pulling her gently into his arms, he buried his face into thick, molasses strands and just breathed in the scent of her – strawberry and vanilla and something he could never define, but uniquely her. It always amazed him how she had the ability to heal him with nothing more than a look and a soft kiss; one that said she understood, that she was here if he needed her, and that she'd never leave him to face his demons alone.

She never spoke in these moments; she'd never had to because her actions, her loving gestures, always stated everything loud and clear.

Pulling away, he looked down into her face, and cupped her jaw, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of her cheeks. He didn't bother to smile, as it would have been a lie, and there were no secrets between them, and no false reassurances; they'd come too far in their relationship to jeopardize it with falsehoods, even if they were meant with the best of intentions.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed her softly, letting the caress say all that he couldn't – thank you for being here, no, I'm not okay, but I will be; I couldn't have made it this far without you; just being with you brings me greater joy and comfort than I can ever express. Letting out a shuddering breath when he felt soft hands running through his hair, he pulled away and leaned his brow against hers. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and he finally felt the last threads of the dream...vision...memory snap, fading into the ether as a sense of calm took its place.

She pulled back, one hand resting on her baby bump, caressing it as she reached out with the other and entwined it with his, gently tugging him back to their room and pulled him into bed, where she wrapped her arms around him. Closing his eyes, he let sleep overtake him, knowing that she was there, that she'd always be there, to soothe away his aches and pains.

**N is for Nurtured.**


	15. Letter O

**O is for Outcast. **He had never really felt as if he fit in on this world; had always known something was different about him. And for each and every smart ass out there who gaped at him like he had suddenly sprouted horns, he didn't mean the obvious answer. Yes, of course his alien origins made him different; his ineloquent brother had even used those very words to explain why he and Liz couldn't be together prior to their non-relationship.

But he didn't mean that.

That _difference_ was compounded by being fostered on, as they say it, 'the wrong side of the tracks,' the charge of what had to be one of the most reviled men in Roswell, further leading to his label of 'misfit.' No matter what he did in the beginning, how hard he'd tried to please, he could never overcome the stigma of being 'Whitmore's boy,' despite his name being completely different from the man who kept him as a meal ticket. After awhile, he simply gave up, buried his hopes under an avalanche of bitterness and let them fade into obscurity.

But even that wasn't the issue really – he had always felt like an outsider, felt that there was something different about him that set him apart from the other hybrids. A memory, deeply rooted and suppressed within the confines of his mind, whispered in his dreams that he had always been this way – aloof, standoffish, cold, indifferent, detached, solitary – they all fit the image that would occasionally crop up in the recesses of his brain, taunting him.

The black sheep of the family.

The dissenter.

Images would flow before his eyes as he slumbered, of a difficult child, who rarely opened up to anyone and marched to his own tune, and never accepted anything but on his own terms. The word '_obstinate_' rang through his ears, in a voice coated in disappointment and disapproval, and lead to opprobrium – disgrace – and ostracism. If he managed to chase down those elusive images, he was faced with the man the difficult child grew into, one who followed his own rules, sneering at the overly officious and mocking the obedient, who had more care for society's frivolous dictates than true justice.

A man who, laughing in the face of adversity, thumbing his nose at the masses, sought to right the wrongs in his world, often to his own detriment.

Or at least, that was his public mask; his outer appearance.

In truth, deep inside, it was the opposite; the mask protected him from careless words and actions, allowed him to move through their society, inciting unrest for the compliant, mindless hogs that sucked up their precious resources without thought and slowly obliterated them. In time, this man would rise from the shadows to heights no one could have foreseen, becoming the second in command to his planet and viewed as a revolutionary, with his own cult following.

Which was why, when Tess barged into their not-so-happy sextet, and stirred up Max and Isabel's complacent, ordered world, a part of him rejoiced. Recognizing a kindred spirit, one that would do what was necessary to right their current world, had excited him and awakened that long dormant part of his soul. And although he made a fuss and pretended not to like this interloper in their midst, a part of him grew hopeful that they were finally on the right track.

**O is for Overture.** It was also why he was one of the first to embrace her when her mask was finally ripped away to reveal that she was one of them; the missing fourth that he had long sought after, even before pictures revealed there was another alien. Max did as he always did, and buried his head in the sand, following Liz around like a whipped puppy, avoiding the truth before his eyes. Isabel shied away, hesitant to embrace someone who would disrupt her anally controlled, comfortable life and buried herself in her endless human frivolities and projects in an effort to maintain that carefree life, despite the fact that it was nothing more than a pretty mirage.

But he – he saw it for what it truly was – the opportunity to learn, for knowledge, for a chance to belong to something bigger and grander and better in every way than the humdrum existence he'd been forced into by circumstance beyond his control. It appealed to the rebel in him, the one who wanted to get back to his origins and a life he had been long denied. He wasn't cut out for this mundane, simple life.

So, when she approached him, offering to teach him their ways and help him hone his chaotic powers, he clutched at it like a starving child would to the first palatable tidbit, desperate to quell the ache raging viciously in his breast, in his gut. The desire to know all of himself, led him down a path that finally felt right for the first time in his life – he was working towards a goal he believed in. And even if that previously unplanned kiss with a certain, small-town brunette had shook his world, momentarily making him question his own opinions of this pathetic, dense rock they lived on, he remained true to his quest, pursuing each succulent nugget of information that fell from lying lips.

Not that he knew it at the time.

**O is for Octet.** Through his accord with Tess, they managed to form a hesitant truce between the eight members of the Alien Abyss, although Liz was less than happy with Tess' induction. Having never forgiven her for driving an irreparable wedge between her and Max with that rainy day kiss, Liz was naturally suspicious of the blonde, and had never fully welcomed her into the group, often saying that something was off about her act.

Months later, he would wish that he had paid heed to her words.

They entered into one of those blissfully ignorant phases that will haunt him for the rest of his life, becoming a unit, cementing the octet as things spiraled out of control around them. Faced with enemies at every turn – a government seeking to eradicate anything even remotely different to it and the enemies from their own planet, the Skins – they gelled and held firm, blind to the evil that lurked within their own collective.

They should have questioned it; the ease with which Tess had insinuated herself into their lives. Had he not been wrapped up in the rightness to his former self emerging after all these years, he would have questioned the wrongness of some of her actions. A true revolutionary that he may have been, he had also believed in moderation; that there were ways to change the world order and definite ways you did not, and Tess skated closer to the edge of that line than he liked.

But he'd never even suspected that something was irrevocably amiss when Alex suddenly took a trip to Sweden. Years later, he would look back and realize that Tess must have mindwarped them into believing that a student exchange in the middle of the school year was natural, and he couldn't have halted those events even if he had been suspicious. But that didn't ease the guilt – over his mindless acceptance of Tess and bringing her into the fold – and the pain that sliced through his heart when Jim uttered the words that shattered their world once more.

"Alex is dead."

**O is for Opium – **_anything that cause dullness or inaction; something having a tranquilizing or stupefying affect_.

The fog that filled his head at those words sent him reeling, leaving him aching and breathless as Liz fell to her knees with a cry of anguish, so piercing that it seemed to impale his heart with its sheer strength alone. Sinking silently behind her, he carefully wrapped his arms around her, and choking on his own grief, he barely felt it when she burrowed into his arms, harsh sobs wracking and shuddering through her body, due to his own disbelieving numbness.

The words seemed to ricochet through his head, tearing it to shreds every time they echoed, until finally his mind shut down in defense, leaving him in a sucking, deadened pool of dread. One that washed over him with cold, unrelenting precision, slicing him from the inside out as he knew, he just knew deep down that this was somehow his fault, even if it was only subliminally.

It would take weeks before he realized just how accurate those first thoughts were.

Days passed in an almost drugged state, the surviving members of their former octet dazed, stupefied, that this could happen; that one of their own had fallen in this mad intergalactic game. The numbness saw them through the funeral and wake, but quickly shattered when Liz dropped her bomb that she felt that Alex had been murdered.

Murder. Another word that ripped through his head with chilling, calculated exactitude.

It brought to fore all those carefully repressed qualms he had about Tess' actions, the subtle chinks in her armor, the sometimes sarcastic lilt in her voice when she agreed that nothing would tear them apart. The doubts whispered through his ears as Max and Liz fought, splitting the remaining group down the middle, aliens versus humans. Staring at the fractured group in front of him, he said not a word as his stomach churned uneasily, six sets of eyes on him.

He knew he should stand with his kind; that he was expected to silently walk out with his brethren, but the look in angry, indignant brown eyes stayed his hand. He agreed with her assessment, and if Max chose to bury his head in the sand, that was on him. He on the other hand will stand with those who needed his protection. Frowning at Max, he squared his shoulders and silently took Liz's hand, giving nonverbal confirmation of his decision.

Silence blanketed the room as Max and Isabel stiffened, almost flinching as animosity and hurt flared in their eyes respectively, but he held firm, standing by what he knew to be the right decision; that those two could turn their backs on Liz, Maria and Kyle after everything enraged him. And those faint whispers of what he'd once been, the avenger who followed his own heart, his own rules broke free as he stood between the 'little people' and the supposed royalty.

And faced with the cold, malicious glee, glinting in blue eyes as the blonde serpent slinked smugly past, Isabel and Max in tow, he knew the fight was far from over. He had defeated injustice once, with nothing more than his convictions and the support of his people; he could take down the malignant, little snake again.

Even if it wore a different face.

**O is for Overcome.**


	16. Letter P

**P is for Prismatic – **_resembling the colors formed by refraction of light through a prism; highly colored, brilliant. _Bright. Bold. Drenched in color. His life prior to, and after her, could be likened to that of a prism; a shard of glass that looked like any other until the sun struck it. And then it exploded into brilliant colors beyond even his artistic mind's imaginings. It'd often left him a little breathless, and frankly, it'd been a little painful, to be surrounded by all that light after living in darkness for so long. And it was certainly nothing akin to his flat existence to date, especially as most people surrounding him tended to be one-note.

None of them affected him like she did; none could make him feel like she did, but if he were to attribute colors to the people and places in his life, he knew exactly what he would choose.

Hank was gray. A gray so deep and murky, it was almost black. A taint that had overtaken his youth until he felt weighted down by it; drowning, struggling for breath and unable to pull himself free from the mire. It was cold, bleak, and stark; that is, until everything began to fester.

And that was so much worse.

Instead of exploding, blasting him free of the mess, Hank had spewed a deeper virulent, blackness, coating him in a thick, oily sludge, which further trapped him within the mire's depths and sunk him into a deep despair.

Until what little light shined on him snuffed out.

Until he hardened.

Until he formed his mask.

He had to in order to survive.

Roswell was a glaring orange – uncomfortable, fraught with uncertainty and warning. His entire life in this town had been one of confusion and that constant sense of waiting for something, _anything_ to happen. And yet, a small, secret part of him had hoped nothing did, because while change was good, he'd found that it typically preceded something far more painful.

Max was green; of the envious kind, of course.

They had had come from similar backgrounds – both were orphans, both had been found abandoned, both had that taint that put them on the government's most wanted list. But Max had landed in a honey pot, while _he_ had been tossed into the sewer. Max had the loving home, doting parents, an irritating, but devoted sister and was the golden boy in everything he touched and did. And then to add insult to injury, for a while, he had even had a love that made _him_ seethe with envy.

That is, until the golden boy fucked it up.

So, perhaps that was one _less_ reason to envy Max Evans.

Isabel was purple – he'd known she was royalty long before that message from her and Max's mother had told them so. She had always put on airs from the time she was eight years old, lording over the masses because she was an Evans and the prettiest girl in the third grade.

It was mildly irritating, and would have tried his patience more than once, if he hadn't also known that it was also a mask. The true Isabel was blue, a beautiful, bright, shimmering blue that she hid away because she was terrified of not fitting in.

It was a shame really, that she hid her true beauty; he could have fallen in love with her and completed their so-called destiny had she been just a little less prickly. But one volatile individual was more than enough in a relationship and he had enough of that on his own.

Maria was red – a deep, passionate red that held him in thrall for a time. She was beautiful in that pixie way and so utterly unstoppable in deed, and belief, that it awed him. She had made him feel for the first time in years, and he couldn't help being drawn to that fire like a moth to a flame.

Bright, bold and glittery, she had matched him in temperament and was more obstinate than a mule when determined to get her way, and he had to admit that he had been dazzled by the package. If only for a short time.

But in all his rhapsodizing, he had forgotten a pivotal thing –

While red is indeed passionate, it is also erratic and can turn on a dime. And the words she flung at him did more damage than Hank, Roswell, Max and Isabel combined.

But Liz – Liz was a fucking rainbow. Ever-changing, ever-flowing with bright, beautiful, bold colors, and every time he thought he had seen all there was to see, every time he thought he knew everything there was to know, he caught sight of some new facet and he was stunned all over again.

And he didn't quite know what to do about her at times.

**P is for Protective. **Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't a soldier or general in his past life, but he could have been. He had a sound, strategic mind, with the ability to see beneath the surface of anything presented to him and he'd utilized it well over his lifetime. In the past and the present.

But_ that_ was another story, for another time. It held no importance other than he thanked the stars everyday that those skills kept him, and those he deemed important, safe.

No, what his notorious protective streak stemmed from, was simply love, and a deep, unshakable devotion for those few that he'd let into his heart. If the rest of the world went to hell in a hand basket in this lifetime, he wouldn't have cared less, so long as those few he held dear were safe. And he'd literally do anything to ascertain their health and well being. He _had_ done anything, including shooting down the man that was getting far too close to their secrets for his comfort and burying him in a shallow grave, deep in the desert. True, it had been an accident, but if he'd had the chance to do it all over again, he wouldn't. His family was all and any threat to them had to be eradicated.

**P is for Polar. **That is was _they – anyone outside their relationship – _called them. Polar opposites. And he couldn't really blame their assumptions, as, by all outward appearances, she and he seemed completely at odds in character.

She was energy and light. He was dark and brooding.

She was logic, reason, methodical. He was action, conflict, chaos.

She was controlled and analytical to a fault. He was a force of nature that refused to contained.

She was calm, cool, and diplomatic. He was edgy, brash, and brutally honest.

She was science. He was art.

She planned everything to death and liked everything organized in neat little boxes. He was more apt to fly by the seat of his pants and liked that life couldn't, _wouldn't,_ be caged, or labeled, or organized.

She had known love all her life. He had been thrown out like trash.

She was all. He was nothing.

Or, at least, that is how he once felt until she managed to change his views on that matter; and quite forcibly at that.

So, he understood how those standing on the outside would think that they were opposites because they weren't privy to the heart of their relationship. Most didn't have the desire, or the fortitude, to delve past the surface to their core personalities.

At the heart of it all, they were both warriors – fiercely protective, loyal and devoted to those that they allowed into their inner sanctum; a place where they sheltered those few, so long as they never betrayed them.

They both went against the grain to seek the answers they needed, relentlessly pushing, pulling and prodding until whatever or _whomever_ they sought yielded those same answers.

They both had a single-mindedness about them when on the scent of some injustice done and they didn't fear how it would manifest or affect others, so long as it was corrected.

They were both intuitive, almost prophetic in a sense.

If anyone in their group were to sense something wrong, it was likely one of them that did so first. It was eerie the way they would freeze, almost in tandem; the way their eyes would meet, each knowing what the other was thinking and feeling while those they protected from outsiders, and even to a degree themselves, went blithely on as if nothing had changed.

Even when her powers manifested, due to that rash healing in the diner, they were more akin to his – volatile, tied to their emotions, reacting violently under stress. It was actually this little problem that brought them together in the end. She didn't know what to do when her powers flared to life in the wake of what they liked to call '_The Destiny Kiss_,' and sought him out when the lines of green electricity began to dance along her arms.

So polar opposites? He didn't really think so. True they tended to approach things with _very_ different methods, but it didn't negate their very real and deep similarities.

**P is for Passion. ** He didn't expect it from her; in truth, he never felt he deserved much more than a careless regard and admiration in spite of that kiss they'd shared nearly a year prior.

She'd been mourning the end of her relationship.

He had been caught up in the implications that there were more of _them_ out there, somewhere, than he'd ever dreamed. That he was part of a far greater path than he'd ever imagined.

So, when it sparked between them one rainy afternoon, when they couldn't go out to the desert to practice their respective powers, and instead holed up alone in his apartment talking and watching TV, it had been unexpected, at least on his part.

Rain had always seemed to play a big role in the significant changes in their lives.

It was raining the day he stumbled into the diner and found a bit of peace as he watched what a real family was made of; what familial love should look like as she and her parents displayed it loud and clear. How he had envied her in that moment.

It was still raining when he saw the first bit of unconditional regard and care reflected back at him, shining through bright chocolate eyes as she fussed and coddled him.

Getting him something dry to wear.

Making sure that he had something to eat.

Making certain he had something hot to drink.

And then bundled him up with a care package when he left.

It was raining as she ran to him for comfort when Max screwed them all royally by kissing Tess. And it continued to rain as she curled up on his chest, like a contented kitten, sleeping unconcernedly - as if she trusted him to keep the monsters away.

It was raining once again when she came to him in a panic, fear radiating from every pore as lines of green electricity shot down her arms, those same eyes flashing as she demanded answers; and then they set up a plan to keep her safe from those who sought to destroy them all.

And it was raining that day, the day they first made love; he wouldn't call it anything else, as there were no other suitable words for what happened that damp, cold afternoon.

It had started innocent; the two of them sitting on his futon, watching TV and eating popcorn, alternatively making fun of the cheesy horror movie that had been playing and talking about anything and everything, and yet nothing at all. He hadn't realized just how close she had gotten until they had turned simultaneously to make some smart remark about the hysterically screaming female lead, and their lips brushed together.

They had frozen like that for a long moment, their lips just touching, their eyes wide and staring and uncertain. He'd meant to pull away, to laugh it off, to pretend it meant nothing; but then her lips had shifted, and a soft, wet, damp heat pressed closer, seeking an answer to the question that had long preyed on their minds -

_Had that mad kiss in the diner been a fluke?_

The air charged around them, thickening like a cream as their lips met, compressed, slid and brushed, and then pulled away time and time again, each kiss intensifying and growing in passion until they were laying together in his bed, and he couldn't quite recall just how they had gotten there.

And then there was heat unlike anything he'd ever known; like they had been standing at the edge of a volcano's crater and that liquid magma flashed through and melted them…

Until they were one.

Until she was surrounding him in all ways possible.

Until he couldn't quite tell where he ended and she began, and he couldn't breathe.

It was pointless - they were joined in a dance, a pleasure older than time and it was indeed, greater than anything he'd ever imagined and left him shaken to his core as they sky rocketed to the very stars he came from and then floated back down to Earth on a cloud of bliss.

No, he hadn't expected that from her, even as she kissed him softly and then curled around him like a contented kitten once more, all but purring as she laid her head on his chest.

But he didn't deny that he wanted it.

He wanted it with an undeniable ferocity unlike any he'd ever experienced in his young life.

And as he laid there, awed, holding her close to his heart, he vowed that he'd do whatever was necessary to be worthy of her gift.

**P is for Promise.**


	17. Letter Q

**AN: **So, this turned out to be more past lives than what I intended. I was planning to a compare/contrast between two Queens and then it went a completely different way. As such, I'm not entirely satisfied with this segment, but I have written and rewritten this three separate times; and then when I was just about ready to post, I ended up hitting the plug on my computer, forcing a reboot and lost a chunk of it, making me have to rewrite it again. And frankly, I'm just done at this point.

* * *

**Q is for Queen.** He has served two queens in his lifetimes, both out of love - the first through the blood; the second of the heart. The first was naive, a girl, soft, and held an innocence that would eventually lead to her destruction. The second started out that way, but she adapted, grew stronger for being tested and survived. Both he would have walked through the fire for; and for both he would gladly have laid down his life.

Liz would always be the queen of his heart despite a lack of noble blood. The one he served through no obligations or familial ties. The one he stood beside, champion and lover. She was a force to be reckoned with, and was always in his thoughts. He valued her, not for the blood in her veins, but for her indomitable spirit, which told him she could look destiny in the face and gladly spit in its eye.

When it came to her, he never doubted his place or his actions.

Instead it was another queen, one he hadn't known well in this life - Avah, sister, the queen he couldn't save - that haunted him.

What few realized, was Avah wasn't his full sister, but only his half. It was a cleverly devised scheme set into motion by his father Raili, who would later become known as Ceneas first, and then Nasedo last. But the second half of that statement was a story for another time.

Memory retrieval was a bitch; and secrets had long been the lifeline that ran through Sevengali blood, both the keeping and the selling of them.

He had been born in a very small province on Antar; one that held a minor noble family out of the King's eye. The royal family rarely noticed his home because they held little land and weren't politically active enough for note; and outside a brief quarterly meeting with the steward, whom they quickly dismissed, they didn't bother with the running of things.

It was this blind eye that would lead to their eventual downfall.

For in this village lived an ambitious man; one who had no qualms of using and abusing the local populace to further his own gain. He wasn't a genius on any scale, but he was crafty, sly and had an additional gift that would prove useful - the ability to change his shape at will. He had been born among the poorest edges of the empire, but had no intentions of remaining there, held down by the caste system that would lead the uprising marking the end of an era best forgotten.

Had this man been aware of what was to come, would he have made the choices he made?

They called it a golden age. Pretty to think so. It may have been a golden age for those living at the top of society, a world built upon the backs of others; but for the so-called dregs of society (nobles are oh-so-charming), the poor and uneducated who couldn't rise above their station because no one gave them the necessary tools, it was misery.

Raili scorned those masses; the ones who worked hard every day for mere scraps and the placating words and absentminded benevolence handed out to them by the nobles and royals of the land. He longed for the silks and satins, and the rich ways long denied to him by circumstance of birth. But rather than work for it, he stole it - first in truth, robbing the rich blind when they passed through the province, and then figuratively when he 'borrowed' another man's life.

Being able to shift at will was a very useful tool. It meant he could do anything, be any_one_. It meant he could move between any stratum of society, so long as he kept silent and minded his actions. And he had always been good at mimicry. It helped when he held up the carriages; no one could ever give an accurate description as he always subtly changed his appearance. And the fools never matched that to a man who could change his shape, as he never made his talent known to the village.

So he hoarded his riches in a remote location, building up a stash he intended to sell in a distant location and then use this to start a new, richer life as a minor noble in another place, and leave this small province behind. And then fate intervened in a startling way.

One night, the carriage he held up wasn't a passing noble, but the steward's.

After knocking the steward and the coachman out, he sat there pondering his options. He could flee; leave with the few trinkets on the man. It really wouldn't be worth his effort, but better than nothing. The driver and the steward would awaken, with a raging headache and a little light of purse, but no worse for the wear. Or...

Or he could take the steward's place and further his plans in a different way.

The coachman had been long disdainful of the current noble ruling their land and often complained of his treatment at the steward's hands while drinking his check away at a local pub. More? He was a friend; one that owed him a favor or two as Raili had gotten him out of trouble with the local authorities on more than one occasion.

If he could convince his friend, he could take the steward's place. He had mentioned he was good at mimicry had he not? That, along with his friend, the youngest son of a merchant family fallen on hard times, and thus an educated man, he could pull off the swindle of a lifetime.

So he quickly roused his friend, relayed his thoughts, and his scheme was quickly embraced to his delight. After assuming the steward's face, they altered the steward's appearance until he looked vaguely like the 'thief' plaguing their land and set off to the manor. There they wove a harrowing tale of how they'd been beset upon by the thief, who had been tragically slain in the conflict. In gratitude, he hired the coachman, his protector who between him and the thief, as his assistant and the ruse began.

Raili became Ceneas, and his friend Eveal became his greatest confidant. He ruled the household with an iron fist, and used his natural business acumen to expand, enfolding neighboring villages into their own landholdings through promises (not all actualized, but enough to placate the villages) and persuasion, until finally he had quadrupled their lands in a few years, bringing them to the attention of the King.

He married well, taking the nobleman's distant cousin, Heulwen, as wife; a union that spawned a single son - Aelrath - before her tragic death (natural causes were stated, but rumors among the household whispered '_poison_'). For Raili had bigger fish to fry than a mere cousin; he wanted it all and would settle no less than the coveted hand of the noble's daughter, Dylan.

Luckily, as the grief-stricken widower of her favorite cousin, he had an instant in and slowly charmed his way into her affections, and her heart, and eventually her bed as her husband, his son adopted into the fold as heir apparent unless they had a son of their own. And even then, Aelrath would have the backing needed to move into the political arena, becoming a puppet statesman in his father's hands.

The new union produced a single female child after a couple of mysterious miscarriages, (no one could figure out how **vaelano** had gotten into Dylanna's water, or ever caught the fiend that knocked her down the stairs the second time; both boys) - Lilyavah. He had a son to mold in his image, a daughter through whom he could make an advantageous match and the nobleman's ear.

Life was looking good from his exalted vantage point.

What he hadn't counted on, was his son Aelrath overhearing his drunken, triumphant ramblings to Eveal one night; the both them high on the fact that they ruled the province now that the nobleman was dead.

And disgusted by his father's scheming, Aelrath disappeared.

And _that_ was when the golden age truly began.

**Q is for Quest.** Rath, as he'd become known, tossed aside his father's wishes and teachings, and lost himself in a neighboring province, taking up with a military family - friends that had unofficially adopted him as another son. Having been groomed for a political commission all his life, he had studied law, and the court and, most importantly, strategy ad nauseum and he was unparalleled in this arena.

Binding himself to the Olenvens didn't even take any thought. As an adult of 22 cycles, he didn't need anyone's permission to take a soldier's commission. He could have done it on his own. But it was always better to have the backing of a well-placed family, and the Olenven family had long known his desire to be his own man and make a name for himself away from his father's reach. So when he'd confided that he'd fallen out with Ceneas (only that wasn't his real name, was it), they took him in.

And that was where he recreated himself, much like his father, to his utter distaste; but he did it for the _people_, not his own selfish whims.

He worked ceaselessly to better the plight of his people; the ones that laid on the outer edges of the empire and thus the poorer regions, the ones that often got overlooked in favor of the pompous and noble lineages, unwittingly building a following as he rose through the ranks. His banner became education for the masses, for equality among the people. He pointed out that a safe, educated, happy populace was a populace that would better the kingdom and bring change and with it prosperity.

He didn't expect it to catch on as it did.

He expected to be a solitary voice in the crowd.

He never dreamed that all those nights he'd lain watching the stars and talking with his sister, Avah, advocating change, advocating education, advocating government support as a way to a better, much more prosperous Antar, would ever come to fruition.

They were just the rambles, the vision, of a boy.

And then fate played its hand once again; two-fold.

**Q is for Question**. Rath had always been a curious boy. He had always seen far more than people had ever given him credit for. Fascinated by the world around him, he constantly sought out new ideas and information and absorbed them like a sponge. Carefully. As it wouldn't do for his father to realize his heir questioned the very ideals he was meant to uphold. He didn't need whispers getting back to Ceneas.

So, he hid his curiosity, and quenched his thirst for knowledge very carefully, and hid it all behind a thinly constructed mask of indifference and boredom in his father's presence. But when alone, when his father left on one of his 'business' trips, he indulged in secret, in defiance of everything his father stood for; he'd always had a fine mind.

It gave _Michael_ comfort to know that some of his personality quirks were engrained, were echoes of his past.

Rath read voraciously; anything and everything he could get his hands on, padding and filling out the whitewashed version of life that his father spoon fed him. And when he ran out of books, he turned to the servants who adored him, considered him one of their own, and peppered them with question after question about their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their thoughts on society and the empire in general.

It was in these quiet moments that the revolution, the age of enlightenment began, all brewing in a mind far too young to really understand just what made him so unique from others of his class. But the thoughts formed, solidified and stuck with him as he grew; these ideals that he'd later pass on to his beloved sibling, a girl he had no idea was destined to be queen.

He was simply Rath, a boy with a very firm, if somewhat idealistic world view; and he couldn't understand why others didn't see the way he did.

It was only later that he realized that those same thoughts would change the world.

**Q is for Qualms.** Hurtling forward to this place in time, Rath never expected it all to end the way it did. They all had such a bright, hopeful future despite Ceneas' manipulations. Despite having been denied his sister when he left home (he had written, but sore at losing his pawn, Ceneas refused to give them to Avah), they'd been reunited in the end.

He'd heard about her from time to time, whispers through the servants that spoke of a girl, who had grown into a beautiful, intelligent and idealistic woman; a relative he was proud to know and love. He'd heard the official story of her betrothal; how she had met Zan while vacationing at Dimaras Rock with Ceneas and how it had been love at first sight. (A part of him, the part that knew Ceneas' end game, couldn't help being doubtful; it all seemed just a little too pat and reeked of an outside source helping the infatuation along.)

But he also didn't doubt his sister's charm; so anything was possible.

(Later he would learn through a scathing retelling of the events by an irate Avah, who said she'd been offered up as a rather fine _jerglr_ for slaughter; or more to the point, a thoroughbred _kevea_ for breeding, that he'd been right in his suspicions.)

It was however, a love match.

Despite their suspicious beginnings, Avah fell in love with Zan. Who wouldn't? He was a unique blend of naive and worldly, and had grand ideas for the empire. And he was a genuinely good man, one who sought to better the plight of his people. He had dreams, changes he wanted to implement to get away from the status quo. Charming, enigmatic, bright as a star...who wouldn't fall under that spell?

He'd loved him himself.

Rath met Zan during a campaign; there had been a minor skirmish on the outside of the Olenvens' land and as the Lord Protector, the head of their guard, he took a few of his men to investigate, inadvertently saving the Crown Prince, who had been traveling incognito. In reward for his help, and because he'd recognized Rath's name, he offered him a commission within the royal guard, and ultimately a place near his sister.

It was a time of peace, of growth, of prosperity - the start of the golden age as stated.

And it blinded them to the corruption, the tarnish that festered underneath the gilt.

He hadn't known Vilondra well; she was often busy with her social events and political obligations. But he had found her warm and caring and had considered her a friend. She laughed with him, joked with him, dropping tempting little seeds of gossip here and there, all shared with sunny smiles and a twinkle in her eyes. So sweet. So personable. And much like her brother, charming, intelligent, although far more worldly...

Deadly.

It had all been a facade.

He'd been blinded at first, much as anyone had. He would grant that she hid her true colors behind a well-constructed wall that impressed even his current self. (It had been heartbreaking to watch Isabel come to terms with her past after she went through memory retrieval. He desperately tried to talk her out of it, wanting to spare her the knowledge, but she'd stubbornly persisted, stating that ignoring it could inadvertently lead to a repetition of past mistakes.) But then the whispers began, knotting his gut in fear as they spoke of betrayal within the ranks, a spy from within.

It was actually during one of those gossip sessions where his doubts in her mask revealed themselves. It wasn't so much what she had been saying, as to how it had been said. It left him off balance, queasy, and questioning every conversation he ever had with the princess; ones where he had divulged far more than he intended.

Why wouldn't he?

She was the princess, part of the royal family, his betrothed and future wife, and thus privy to more information than the average person. She was on their side.

Or so he thought.

What he hadn't counted on was she'd fallen in love with a person 'unsuitable' in her family's eyes, and their unwillingness to support that love had bred resentment.

Khivar was the middle son of a once well-to-do, merchant family; one that had fallen into hard times due to their role in a previous war. They lost much of that wealth to the crown in reparation for the damages they had inflicted on a neighboring province, another act that bred resentment, and Khivar grew up poisoned to the crown. And he had no compunctions about using a spoiled, unhappy princess against her kin; especially if it led to an uprising.

They met at a party in a nearby province while Vilondra and Avah were visiting a friend. She'd gotten bored, despite the attendants pandering to her every whim and slipped out into the garden, where Khivar lain in wait of an easy target.

That was the beginning of the end.

Khivar ensnared her with coy, clever words and visions of her as queen, aided by both his natural charisma and his powers.

Or so Michael had always hoped. He never could reconcile Isabel, and the younger Vilondra, with what she became in the end - a cold, embittered woman capable of patricide (never would he have dreamed that she'd been behind her father's riding accident); and willing to sacrifice her brother, his wife, who was once her best friend, and her future husband on a flimsy promise at best, and an outright lie at worst.

But he couldn't deny his qualms were confirmed as he stared into the cool eyes of a stranger, sitting in the face of one he once called friend as he was dragged before her and her paramour. He stared deep into violet eyes and tried to find anything familiar that would belie the reality staring him in the face; part of him had hoped it was a ruse, and she was just playing along with Khivar in an attempt to bring him to justice.

But there was nothing but cold disdain.

Which made it all the more jarring and heartbreaking as the past was repeated; only this time it was the eyes of a beloved sibling staring at him with a similar expression as Tess admitted to killing Alex, wrenching his heart all over again.

And he couldn't help the dark smile that crossed his face as Tess spilled her guts about the plan, realizing that it might have taken decades, but his father, once known as Raili, and then Ceneas, and finally Nasedo or Ed Harding here on Earth, had finally gotten his revenge.

**Q is for Quake.**


End file.
